son* 


FROM  THE  LAND  OF  THE  SNOW-PEARI^ 


FROM    THE    LAND    OF 
THE  SNOW-PEARLS 


TALES  FROM  PUGKT  SOUND 


By  ELLA  HIGGINSON. 


NKW   YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
CONDON:  MACMIM.AN  &  Co.,  I/TD. 

1902 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
THE  CAI/VERT  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1897,  by 
THE  MACMII^AN  COMPANY 


ri 


TO 

RUSSELL  GARDEN  HIGGINSON 


M637363 


fcome  of  the  stories  in  this  book  appeared 
originally  in  McClure's,  LippincoWs,  Les 
lie's  Weekly,  Short  Stories,  The  Black  Cat 
and  The  New  Peterson.  I  am  indebted  to 
the  publishers  of  those  periodicals  for  the 
kind  permission  to  reprint  them. 

E.  H. 

This  book  was  first  published  under 
the  title  of  "The  Flower  that  Grew  in  the 
Sand."  To  the  present  edition,  two  stories 
have  been  added. 

The  Publishers. 


Puget  Sound  lies  in  its  emerald  setting 
like  a  great  blue  sapphire,  which  at  sun 
set,  draws  to  its  breast  all  the  marvelous 
and  splendid  coloring  of  the  fire-opal. 
Around  it,  shining  through  their  rose-col 
ored  mists  like  pearls  upon  the  soft  blue 
or  green  of  the  sky,  are  linked  the  great 
snow-mountains,  so  beautiful  and  so  dear, 
that  those  who  love  this  land  with  a  proud 
and  passionate  love,  have  come  to  think  of 
it,  fondly  and  poetically,  as  "the  land  of 
the  snow-pearls." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND  ....  1  ~ 

ESTHER'S  "FOURTH" 21 

THE  BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 31 

THE  TAKIN'   IN  OF  OLD  Mis'  I/ANE 41 

THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.    SYBERT 67  ^ 

A  POINT  OF  KNUCKLING-DOWN 79  <- 

THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 141 

ZARELDA 183 

IN  THE  BITTER  ROOT  MOUNTAINS 207 

PATIENCE  APPLEBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 217 

THE  MOTHER  OF  "PILLS" 243 

MRS.  RISLEY'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  .  263 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE 
SAND 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE 
SAND 

Dernaris  opened  the  gate  and  walked  up  the 
narrow  path.  There  was  a  low  hedge  of  pink  and 
purple  candytuft  on  each  side.  Inside  the  hedges 
were  little  beds  of  homely  flowers  in  the  shapes 
of  hearts,  diamonds  and  Maltese  crosses. 

Mrs.  Eaton  was  stooping  over  a  rosebush,  but 
she  arose  when  she  heard  the  click  of  the  gate. 
She  stood  looking  at  Demaris,  with  her  arms 
hanging  stiffly  at  her  sides. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  grim  smile;  "y°u>  is 
it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  blushing  and  looking 
embarrassed.  "Ain't  it  a  nice  evenin'?" 

"It  is  that;  awful  nice.  I'm  tyin'  up  my  rose 
bushes.  Won't  you  come  in  an'  set  down  a 
while?" 

"Oh,  my,  no  !"  said  Demaris.  Her  eyes  went 
wistfully  to  the  pink  rosebush.  "I  can't  stay." 

"Come  fer  kindlin'  wood?" 

"No."    She  laughed  a  little  at  the  worn-out 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND' 

joke.  "I  come  to  see  'f  you  had  two  or  three 
pink  roses  to  spare." 

'  'Why,  to  be  sure,  a  dozen  if  you  want.  Just 
come  an'  help  yourself.  My  hands  ain't  fit  to 
tech  'em  after  drggin'  so." 

She  stood  watching  the  girl  while  she  carefully 
selected  some  half-open  roses.  There  was  a  look 
of  good-natured  curiosity  on  her  face. 

"Anything  goin'  on  at  the  church  to-night?" 

"No;  at  least  not  that  I  know  of." 

"It  must  be  a  party  then." 

"No — not  a  party,  either."  She  laughed 
merrily.  Her  face  was  hidden  as  she  bent  over 
the  roses,  but  her  ears  were  pink  under  the  heavy 
brown  hair  that  fell,  curling,  over  them. 

"Well,  then,  somebody's  comin'  to  see  you." 

1  'No;  I'll  have  to  tell  you."  She  lifted  a  glad, 
shy  face.  "I'm  goin'  on  the  moonlight  excur 
sion." 

1  'Oh,  now  !     Sure ?    Well,  I'm  reel  glad. ' ' 

"So'm  I.  I  never  wanted  to  go  anywheres  so 
much  in  my  life.  I've  been  'most  holdin'  my 
breath  for  fear  ma'd  get  sick." 

'  'How  is  your  ma  ?" 

"Well,  she  ain't  very  well;  she  never  is,  you 
know." 

"What  ails  her?" 

"I  do'  know,"  said  Demaris,  slowly.  "We'll 
get  home  by  midnight.  So  'f  she  nas  a  spell 

2 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

come  on,  pa  can  set  up  with  her  till  I  get  home, 
and  then  I  can  till  mornin'." 

"Should  think  you'd  be  all  wore  out  a-settin' 
up  two  or  three  nights  a  week  that  way." 

Demaris  sighed.  The  radiance  had  gone  out 
of  her  face  and  a  look  of  care  was  upon  it. 

"Well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  'Til  have  a 
good  time  to-night,  anyhow.  We're  goin'  to  have 
the  band  along.  They're  gettin'  so's  they  play 
reel  well.  They  play  'Annie  L,aurie'  an'  'Rocked 
'n  the  Cradle  o'  the  Deep,'  now." 

The  gate  clicked.  A  child  came  running  up 
the  path. 

"Oh,  sister,  sister  !     Come  home  quick  !" 

'  'What  for  ?' '  said  Demaris.  There  was  a  look 
of  dread  on  her  face. 

"Ma's  goin'  right  into  a  spell.  She  wants  you 
quick.  She  thinks  she's  took  worse  'n  usual." 

There  was  a  second's  hesitation.  The  girl's 
face  whitened.  Her  lips  trembled. 

"I  guess  I  won't  want  the  roses  after  gettin' 
'em,"  she  said.  "I'm  just  as  much  obliged, 
though,  Mis'  Eaton." 

She  followed  the  child  to  the  gate. 

"Well,  if  that  don't  beat  all!"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Eaton,  looking  after  her  with  genuine  sympathy. 
"It  just  seems  as  if  she  had  a  spell  to  order  ev'ry 
time  that  girl  wants  to  go  anywheres.  It's  noth- 
in'  but  hysterics,  anyway.  I'd  like  to  doctor  her 


THK  FXOWKR  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

for  a  while.  I'd  souze  a  bucket  o'  cold  water 
over  her !  I  reckon  that  'u'd  fetch  her  to  'n  a 
hurry." 

She  laughed  with  a  kind  of  stern  mirth  and  re 
sumed  her  work. 

Demaris  hurried  home.  The  child  ran  at  her 
side.  Once  she  took  her  hand  and  gave  her  an 
upward  look  of  sympathy. 

She  passed  through  the  kitchen,  laying  her 
roses  on  the  table.  Then  she  went  into  her 
mother's  room. 

Mrs.  Ferguson  lay  on  a  couch.  A  white  cloth 
was  banded  around  her  head,  coming  well  down 
over  one  eye.  She  was  moaning  bitterly. 

Demaris  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 

"Whereon  earth  you  been?"  She  gave  the 
girl  a  look  of  fierce  reproach.  "A  body  might 
die,  fer  all  the  help  you'd  be  to  'em.  Here  I've 
been  a-feelin'  a  spell  a-corain'  on  all  day,  an'  yet 
you  go  a-gaddin'  'round  to  the  neighbors,  leavin' 
me  to  get  along  the  best  way  I  know  how.  I 
believe  this  is  my  last  spell.  I've  got  that  awful 
pain  over  my  right  eye  ag'in,  till  I'm  nearly 
crazy.  My  liver's  all  out  o'  order." 

Demaris  was  silent.  When  one  has  heard  the 
cry  of  *  'wolf '  a  hundred  times,  one  is  inclined  to 
be  incredulous.  Her  apathetic  look  angered  her 
mother. 

"What  makes  you  stand  there  a-starin'  like  a 


THE   FLOWER   THAT   GREW   IN   THE   SAND 

dunce  ?  Can't  you  help  a  body  ?  Get  the  camfire 
bottle  an'  the  tincture  lobelia  an'  the  box  o'  goose 
grease  !  You  know's  well's  me  what  I  need  when 
I  git  a  spell.  I'm  so  nervous  I  feel's  if  I  c'u'd 
fly.  I  got  a  horrible  feelin'  that  this' 11  be  my  last 
spell — an'  yet  you  stand  there  a-starin'  's  if  you 
didn't  care  a  particle  !" 

Demaris  moved  about  the  room  stiffly,  as  if 
every  muscle  m  her  body  were  in  rebellion.  She 
took  from  a  closet  filled  with  drugs  the  big  cam 
phor  bottle  with  its  cutglass  stopper,  the  little 
bottle  labeled  ''tine,  lobelia,"  and  the  box  of 
goose  grease. 

She  placed  a  chair  at  the  side  of  the  couch 
to  hold  the  bottle.  "Oh,  take  that  old  split- 
bottom  cheer  away!"  exclaimed  her  mother. 
*  'Everything  upsets  on  it  so  !  Get  one  from  the 
kitchen — the  one  that's  got  cherries  painted  on 
the  back  of  it.  What  makes  you  ac'  so  ?  You 
know  what  cheer  I  want.  You'd  tantalize  the 
soul  out  of  a  saint !" 

The  chair  was  brought.  The  bottles  were  placed 
upon  it.  Demaris  stood  waiting. 

"Now  rub  my  head  with  the  camfire,  or  I'll  go 
ravin'  crazy.  I  can't  think  where  ' t  comes  from !' ' 

The  child  stood  twitching  her  thin  fingers 
around  a  chair.  She  watched  her  mother  in  a 
matter-of-course  way.  Demaris  leaned  over  the 
couch  in  an  uncomfortable  position  and  commenced 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

the  slow,  gentle  massage  that  must  continue  all 
night.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  They  were  full 
of  tears. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Mrs.  Ferguson  lay  with  closed  eyes.  Her  face 
wore  a  look  of  mingled  injury  and  reproach. 

"Nellie,"  said  Demaris,  after  a  while,  "could 
3'ou  make  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove  ?  Or  would 
you  rather  try  to  do  this  while  I  build  it?" 

"Hunh-unh,"  said  the  child,  shaking  her  head 
with  emphasis.  "I'd  ruther  build  fires  any 
time." 

"All  right.  Put  two  dippers  'o  water  'n  the 
tea-kettle.  Be  sure  you  get  your  dampers  right. 
An'  I  guess  you  might  wash  some  potatoes  an' 
put  'em  in  to  bake.  They'll  be  done  by  time  pa 
comes,  an'  he  can  stay  with  ma  while  I  warm  up 
the  rest  o'  the  things.  Ma,  what  could  you  eat  ?" 

"Oh,  I  do'  know" — in  a  slightly  mollified  tone. 
"A  piece  o'  toast,  mebbe — 'f  you  don't  get  it  too 
all-fired  hard." 

"Well,  I'll  try  not." 

Nellie  went  out,  and  there  was  silence  in  the 
room.  The  wind  came  in  through  the  open  win 
dow,  shaking  little  ripples  of  perfume  into  the 
room.  The  sun  was  setting  and  a  broad  band  of 
reddish  gold  sunk  down  the  wall. 

Demaris  watched  it  sinking  lower,  and  thought 
how  slowly  the  sun  was  settling  behind  the 
6 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

straight  pines  on  the  crests  of  the  blue  mountains. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Ferguson,  "what  a  wretched 
creature  I  am  !  Just  a-sufferin'  day  an'  night, 
year  in  an'  year  out,  an'  a  burden  on  them  that 
I've  slaved  fer  all  my  life.  Many's  the  night  I'w* 
walked  with  you  'n  my  arms  till  mornin',  Demaris, 
an'  never  knowed  what  it  was  to  git  sleepy  or  tired. 
An'  now  you  git  mad  the  minute  I  go  into  a  spell." 

Demaris  stood  upright  with  a  tortured  look. 

'  'Oh,  ma, ' '  she  exclaimed.  Her  voice  was  harsh 
with  pain.  "I  ain't  mad.  Don't  think  I'm  mad. 
I  can't  cry  out  o'  pity  ev'ry  time  you  have  a 
spell,  or  I'd  be  cryin'  all  the  time.  An'  besides, 
to-night  I'm  so — disappointed." 

"What  you  disappointed  about?" 

"Why,  you  know."  Her  lips  trembled.  "The 
exctwsion." 

Mrs.  Ferguson  opened  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I'd  clean  fergot  that." 

She  looked  as  if  she  were  thinking  she  would 
really  have  postponed  the  spell,  if  she  had  re 
membered.  "That's  too  bad,  Demaris.  That's 
always  the  way."  She  began  to  cry  helplessly. 
"I'm  always  in  the  way.  Always  mis'rable  my 
self,  an'  always  niakin'  somebody  else  mis'rable. 
I  don't  see  what  I  was  born  fer." 

"Never  you  mind."  Demaris  leaned  over  sud 
denly  and  put  her  arms  around  her  mother. 
"Don't  you  think  I'm  mad.  I'm  just  dxsap- 


FLOWER  THAT  GREW 


pointed.  Now  don't  cry.  You'll  go  and  make 
yourself  worse.  An'  there  comes  pa;  I  hear  him 
cleanin'  his  boots  on  the  scraper." 

Mr.  Ferguson  stumbled  as  he  came  up  the  steps 
to  the  kitchen.  He  was  very  tired.  He  was  not 
more  than  fifty,  but  his  thin  frame  had  a  pitiable 
stoop.  The  look  of  one  who  has  struggled  long 
and  failed  was  on  his  brown  and  wrinkled  face. 
His  hair  and  beard  were  prematurely  gray.  His 
dim  blue  eyes  had  a  hopeless  expression  that  was 
almost  hidden  by  a  deeper  one  of  patience.  He 
wore  a  coarse  flannel  shirt,  moist  with  perspira 
tion,  and  faded  blue  overalls.  His  boots  were 
wrinkled  and  hard;  the  soil  of  the  fields  clung 
to  them.  "  Sick  ag'in,  ma?"  he  said. 

"Sick  ag'in!  Mis'rable  creature  that  I  am! 
I've  got  that  awful  pain  over  my  right  eye  ag'in. 
I  can't  think  where  it  comes  from.  I'm  nearly 
crazy  with  it." 

1  'Well,  I  guess  you'll  feel  a  little  better  after  you 
git  some  tea.  I'll  go  an'  wash,  an'  then  rub  your 
head,  while  Demaris  gits  a  bite  to  eat.  I've 
plowed  ever  since  sun-up,  an'  I'm  tired  an'  hun- 
gry." 

He  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  and  took  De 
maris'  s  place.  He  sighed  deeply,  but  silently,  as 
he  sat  down. 

Demaris  set  the  table  and  spread  upon  it  the 
simple  meal  which  she  had  prepared.  "I'll  stay 
& 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

with  ma  while  you  an'  pa  eat,'*  said  Nellie,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  unselfishness. 

"Well,"  said  Demaris,  wearily. 

Mr.  Ferguson  sat  down  at  the  table  and  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hand.  "I'm  too  tired  to  eat,"  he 
said;  "hungry 's  I  am.*'  He  looked  at  the  un- 
tempting  meal  of  cold  boiled  meat,  baked  pota 
toes  and  apple  sauce. 

Demaris  did  not  lift  her  eyes  as  she  sat  down. 
She  felt  that  she  ought  to  say  something  cheerful, 
but  her  heart  was  too  full  of  her  own  disappoint 
ment.  She  despised  her  selfishness  even  while 
yielding  to  it. 

"It  does  beat  all  about  your  ma,"  said  her 
father.  "I  can't  see  where  she  gits  that  pain 
from.  It  ain't  nothin'  danger's  or  it  'u'd  a-killed 
her  long  ago.  It  almost  seems  's  if  she  jests  gits 
tired  o'  bein'  well,  an'  begins  to  git  scared  fer 
fear  that  pain's  a-comin'  on — an'  then  it  comes 
right  on.  I've  heard  her  say  lots  o'  times  that 
she'd  been  well  a  whole  week  now,  but  that  she 
w'u'dn't  brag  or  that  pain  'u'd  come  on — an' 
inside  of  an  hour  it  'ud  up  an'  come  on.  It's 
awful  discouragin'." 

"I  wish  I  was  dead  !"  said  Demaris. 

Her  father  did  not  speak.  His  silence  re 
proached  her  more  than  any  words  could  have 
done. 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

i 
When  she  went  into  the  bedroom  again  she 

found  her  mother  crying  childishly. 

"Demaris,  did  I  hear  you  say  you  wished  you 
was  dead  ?' ' 

"I  guess  so.     I  said  it." 

"Well,  God  Almighty  knows  I  wish  I  was! 
You  don't  stop  to  think  what  'u'd  become  o'  me 
'f  it  wa'n't  fer  you.  Your  pa  c'u'dn't  hire  any 
body,  an'  he's  gittin'  too  old  to  set  up  o'  nights 
after  workin'  hard  all  day.  You'd  like  to  see't 
all  come  on  your  little  sister,  I  reckon." 

Demaris  thought  of  those  slim,  weak  wrists, 
and  shivered.  Her  mother  commenced  to  sob — 
and  that  aggravated  the  pain. 

Demaris  stooped  and  put  her  arms  around  her 
and  kissed  her. 

'  T  m  sorry  I  said  it, ' '  she  whispered.  *  'I  didn'  t 
mean  it.  I'm  just  tired  an'  cross.  You  know  I 
didn't  mean  it."  ^ 

Her  father  came  in  heavily. 

"Demaris,"  he  said,  "Frank  Vickers  is  comin' 
'round  to  the  front  door.  I'll  take  keer  o'  your 
ma  while  you  go  in  an'  see  him." 

It  was  a  radiant-faced  young  fellow  that  walked 
into  Demarts's  little  parlor.  He  took  her  hand 
with  a  tenderness  that  brought  the  color  beating 
into  her  cheeks. 

"What?"  he   said.     "An'    you   ain't  ready? 

Why,  the  boat  leaves  in  an  hour,  an'  it's  a  good, 

. -~r  „•  1 

10 


THE  FLOWER  THAT   GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

long  walk  to  the  wharf.     You'll  have  to  hurry 
up,  Demaris." 

"I  can't  go." 

4 'You  can't  go  ?     Why  can't  you  ?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  bravely.  Then  tears  swelled 
into  them  very  slowly  until  they  were  full.  Not 
one  fell.  She  looked  at  him  through  them.  He 
felt  her  hand  trembling  against  the  palm  of  his 
own. 

"Why  can't  you,  Demaris?" 

"My  mother's  sick — just  hear  her  moanin'  clear 
in  here." 

Young  Vickers's  face  was  a  study. 

"Why,  she  was  sick  last  time  I  wanted  to  take 
you  som'ers — to  a  dance,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes— I  know." 

"An'  time  before  that,  when  I  wanted  you  to 
go  to  a  church  sociable  up'n  String  Town." 

"Yes." 

"Why,  she  must  be  sick  near  onto  all  the  time, 
accordin'  to  that." 

"She  is — pretty  near."  She  withdrew  her 
hand.  There  was  a  stiff-looking  lounge  in  one 
corner  of  the  room.  It  was  covered  with  Brussels 
carpet,  and  had  an  uncomfortable  back,  but  it 
was  dear  to  Demaris' s  heart.  She  had  gathered 
and  sold  strawberries  two  whole  summers  to  pay 
for  it.  She  sat  down  on  it  now  and  laid  her 
hands  together  on  her  knees. 
ii 


FLOWER  THAT  GREJW  IN  THIC   SAND 

The  young  man  followed  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "you 
can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing — it's  wearin'  you 
out.  You  never  did  look  light  an'  happy  like 
other  girls  o'  your  age;  an'  lately  you're  gettin' 
a  real  pinched  look.  I  feel  as  if  't  was  time  for 
me  to  interfere. ' '  He  took  her  hand  again. 

It  was  dim  twilight  in  the  room  now.  De- 
maris  turned  her  head  aside.  The  tears  brimmed 
over  and  fell  fast  and  silently. 

"Interferin'  won't  do  no  good,"  she  said,  res 
olutely.  "There's  just  two  things  about  it.  My 
mother's  sick  all  the  time,  an'  I  have  to  wait  on 
her.  There's  nobody  else  to  do  it." 

"Well,  as  long  's  you  stay  at  home  it'll  all  come 
on  you.  You  ain't  able  to  carry  sech  a  load." 

"I'll  have  to." 

"Demaris,  you'll  just  have  to  leave." 

"What !"  said  the  girl.  She  turned  to  look  at 
him  in  a  startled  way.  * 'L,eave  home  ?  I  couldn't 
think  of  doin'  that." 

He  leaned  toward  her  and  put  his  arm  around 
her,  trembling  strongly.  "Not  even  to  come  to 
my  home,  Demaris  ?  I  want  you,  dear;  an'  I 
won't  let  you  kill  yourself  workin',  either.  I  ain't 
rich,  but  I'm  well  enough  off  to  give  you  a  com 
fortable  home  an'  some  one  to  do  your  work  for 
you." 

12 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

There  was  a  deep  silence.  Each  felt  the  full 
beating  of  the  other's  heart.  There  was  a  rose 
bush  under  the  window,  an  old-fashioned  one. 
Its  blooms  were  not  beautiful,  but  they  were  very 
sweet.  It  had  flung  a  slim,  white  spray  of  them 
into  the  room.  Demaris  never  smelled  their  fra 
grance  afterward  without  a  keen,  exquisite  thrill 
of  passion,  as  brief  as  it  was  delicious. 

"I  can't,  Frank."  Her  tone  was  low  and  un 
certain.  "I  can't  leave  my  mother.  She's  sick 
an'  gettin'  old.  I  can't." 

"Oh,  Demaris  !     That's  rank  foolishness  !" 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  the  right  kind  of  foolish 
ness."  She  drew  away  and  sat  looking  at  him. 
Her  hands  were  pressed  together  in  her  lap. 

''Why,  it  ain't  expected  that  a  girl  'ad  ought 
to  stay  an'  take  care  o'  her  mother  forever,  is  it  ? 
It  ain't  expected  that  she  ought  to  turn  herself 
into  a  hospital  nurse,  is  it  ?' ' 

Her  face  grew  stern. 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  Frank.  That  ain't  re 
spectful  to  my  mother.  She's  had  a  hard  life  an' 
so's  my  father.  You  know  I  want  to  come,  but 
I  can't.  It's  my  place  to  stay  an'  take  care  o' 
her.  I'm  goin'  to  do  it — hard  's  it  is.  My  leav- 
in'  'em  'u'd  just  take  the  heart  out  of  both  of 'em. 
An'  there's  Nellie,  too." 

"Demaris —  he  spoke  slowly;  his  face  was 
pale — "I'm  goin'  to  say  soinethin'  to  you  I  never 

13 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

thought  I'd  say  to  any  girl  alive.  But  the  fact 
is,  I  didn't  know  till  right  now  how  much  I  think 
o'  you.  You  niarry  me,  an'  we'll  all  live  to 
gether?" 

Her  face  softened.  She  leaned  a  little  toward 
him  with  uncontrollable  tenderness.  But  as  he 
made  a  quick  movement,  she  drew  back. 

"No,  Frank.  I  can't — I  can't !  It  won't  do. 
Such  things  is  what  breaks  women's  hearts  !" 

''What  things,  dear?" 

"Folks  livin'  together  that  way.  There's  no 
good  ever  comes  of  it.  I'd  have  to  set  up  with 
mother  just  the  same,  an'  you'd  be  worryin'  all 
the  time  for  fear  it  'u'd  make  me  sick,  an'  you'd 
be  wantin'  to  set  up  with  'er  yourself." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  stoutly.  "I'd  expect  to. 
That's  what  I  mean.  I'd  take  some  o'  your  load 
offo'  you." 

Demaris  smiled  mournfully.  "You  don't  know 
what  it  is,  Frank.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about 
it,  but  when  it  comes  to  doin'  it  you'd  be  tired 
out  'n  a  month.  You'd  wish  you  hadn't  married 
me — an'  that  'u'd  kill  me  !" 

"I  wouldn't.  Oh,  Demaris,  just  you  try  me. 
I'll  be  good  to  all  your  folks — just  as  good's  can 
be,  dear.  I  swear  it." 

She  leaned  toward  him  again  with  a  sob.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms.  He  felt  the  delicious 


THE  FI/3WER  THAT   GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

warmth  of  her  body.  Their  lips  trembled  to 
gether. 

After  a  while  she  drew  away  slowly  and  looked 
at  him  earnestly  in  the  faint  light. 

"If  I  thought  you  wouldn't  change,"  she  fal 
tered.  "I  know  you  mean  it  now,  but  oh — " 

"Sister,"  called  a  thin,  troubled  voice  from  the 
hall;  "can't  you  come  here  just  a  minute?" 

Demaris  went  at  once,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

The  child  threw  her  slim  arms  around  her 
sister's  waist,  sobbing. 

4 'Oh,  sister,  I  forgot  to  get  the  kindlin'  wood, 
an'  now  it's  so  dark  down  cellar.  I'm  afraid. 
Can't  you  come  with  me?" 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,  dear,  an'  I  will.  Frank 
won't  stay  long  to-night." 

"Oh,  won't  he?  I'm  so  glad."  Her  voice 
sunk  to  a  whisper.  "I  hate  to  have  him  here, 
sister.  He  takes  you  away  from  us  so  much,  an' 
ev'ry thing  goes  wrong  when  you  ain't  here.  Ma's 
offul  bad  to-night,  an'  pa  looks  so  tired  !  Don't 
let  him  stay  long,  sister.  He  don't  need  you  as 
bad  's  we  'do." 

She  tiptoed  into  the  kitchen.  Demaris  stood 
still  in  the  hall.  The  moon  was  coming,  large 
and  silver,  over  the  hill.  Its  soft  light  brought 
her  slender  figure  out  of  the  dark,  and  set  a  halo 
above  her  head  bending  on  its  fair  neck,  like  a 


THE  FLOWER  THAT  GREW  IN  THE  SAND 

flower  on  its  stem.     Her  lips  moved,   but  the 
prayer  remained  voiceless  in  her  heart. 

A  moan  came  from  her  mother's  room. 

"Oh,  paw,  you  hurt  my  head  !  Your  hand  's 
terrable  rough  !  Is  that  girl  goin'  to  stay  in  there 
forever  ?' ' 

Demaris  lifted  her  head  and  walked  steadily 
into  the  poor  little  parlor.  "I'll  have  to  ask  you 
to  go  now,  Frank;  my  mother  needs  me." 

"Well,  dear."  He  reached  his  strong  young 
arms  to  her.  She  stood  back,  moving  her  head 
from  side  to  side. 

"No,  Frank.  I  can't  marry  you,  now  or  ever. 
My  mother  comes  first." 

"But  you  ain't  taken  time  to  make  up  your 
mind,  Demaris.  I'll  wait  fer  'n  answer." 

"It's  no  use.  I  made  up  my  miad  out  'n  the 
hall.  You  might  as  well  go.  When  I  make  up 
my  mind  it's  no  use  in  try  in'  to  get  me  to  change 
it.  I  hadn't  made  it  up  before." 

He  went  to  her  and  took  her  hands. 

'  'Demaris, ' '  he  said,  and  all  his  heart-break  was 
in  his  voice,  "do  you  mean  it?  Oh,  my  dear, 
I'll  go  if  you  send  me;  but  I'll  never  come  back 
again;  never." 

She  hesitated  but  a  second.  Then  she  said 
very  gently,  without  emotion — '  'Yes,  go.  You've 
been  good  to  me;  but  it's  all  over.  Good-bye." 


THE   FLOWER   THAT  GREW   IN  THE   SAND 

lie  dropped  her  hands  without  a  word,  and 
went. 

She  did  not  look  after  him,  or  listen  to  his  foot 
steps.  She  went  to  the  cellar  with  Nellie,  to  get 
the  kindling  wood,  which  she  arranged  in  the 
stove,  ready  for  the  match  in  the  morning. 

Then  she  went  into  her  mother's  room.  She 
looked  pale  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  candle. 

"I'll  take  care  of  ma,  now,  pa,"  she  said. 
"You  get  to  bed  an'  rest.  I  know  you're  all 
tired  out — plowin'  ever  since  sun-up  !  An'  don't 
you  get  up  till  I  call  you.  I  ain't  a  bit  sleepy. 
I  couldn't  sleep  if  I  went  to  bed." 

She  moistened  her  fingers  with  camphor  and 
commenced  bathing  her  mother's  brow. 


ESTHER'S  "  FOURTH  " 


ESTHER'S  "FOURTH" 

It  was  the  fourth  day  of  July,  and  the  fourth 
hour  of  the  day.  Long,  beryl  ribbons  of  color 
were  streaming  through  the  lovely  Grand  Ronde 
valley  when  the  little  girl  awoke — so  suddenly 
and  so  completely  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  not 
been  asleep  at  all. 

"Sister!"  she  cried  in  a  thin,  eager  voice. 
"Ain't  it  time  to  get  up?  It's  just  struck  four." 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  older  girl  drowsily. 
"There's  lots  o'  time,  Pet." 

She  put  one  arm  under  the  child  affectionately 
and  fell  asleep  again.  The  little  girl  lay  motion 
less,  waiting.  There  was  a  large  cherry  tree  out 
side,  close  to  the  tiny  window  above  her  bed,  and 
she  could  hear  the  soft  turning  of  the  leaves,  one 
against  the  other,  and  the  fluttering  of  the  rob 
ins  that  were  already  stealing  the  cherries.  In 
nocent  thieves  that  they  were,  they  continually 
betrayed  themselves  by  their  shrill  cries  of 
triumph. 

Not  far  from  the  tiny  log-cabin  the  river  went 
singing  by  on  its  way  through  the  green  valley; 
hearing  it,  Esther  thought  of  the  soft  glooms 
under  the  noble  balm  trees,  where  the  grouse 

21 


ESTHER'S   "FOURTH" 

drummed  and  butterflies  drifted  in  long  level 
flight.  Esther  always  breathed  softly  while  she 
watched  the  butterflies — she  had  a  kind  of  rever 
ence  for  them — and  she  thought  there  could  be 
nothing  sweeter,  even  in  heaven,  than  the  scents 
that  the  wind  shook  out  of  the  balms. 

She  lay  patiently  waiting  with  wide  eyes  until 
the  round  clock  in  the  kitchen  told  her  that  an 
other  hour  had  gone  by.  '  'Sister, ' '  she  said  then, 
"oh,  it  must  be  time  to  get  up  !  I  just  can't 
wait  any  longer. ' ' 

The  older  girl,  with  a  sleepy  but  sympathetic 
smile,  slipped  out  of  bed  and  commenced  dress 
ing.  The  child  sprang  after  her.  '  'Sister, ' '  she 
cried,  running  to  the  splint-bottomed  chair  on 
which  lay  the  cheap  but  exquisitely  white  under 
garments.  "I  can't  hardly  wait.  Ain't  it  good 
of  Mr.  Hoover  to  take  me  to  town  ?  Oh,  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  hearts  all  over  me,  an'  every  one  of 
'em  beating  so  !  " 

"Don't  be  so  excited,  Pet."  The  older  sister 
smiled  gently  at  the  child.  "Things  never  are 
quite  as  nice  as  you  expect  them  to  be,"  she 
added,  with  that  wisdom  that  comes  so  soon  to 
starved  country  hearts. 

"Well,  this  can't  help  bein'  nice,"  said  the 
child,  with  a  beautiful  faith.  She  sat  on  the  strip 
of  rag  carpeting  that  partially  covered  the  rough 
floor,  and  drew  on  her  stockings  and  her  copper- 

22 


toed  shoes.  '  'Oh,  sister,  my  fingers  shake  so  I  can't 
get  the  strings  through  the  eyelets !  Do  you 
think  Mr.  Hoover  might  oversleep  hisself  ?  It 
can't  help  bein'  nice — nicer' n  I  expect.  Of 
course,"  she  added,  with  a  momentary  regret, 
"I  wish  I  had  some  other  dress  besides  that  buff 
calico,  but  I  ain't,  an'  so — it's  reel  pretty,  any 
ways,  sister,  ain't  it?  " 

"Yes,  Pet,5>  said  the  girl  gently.  There  was 
a  bitter  pity  for  the  child  in  her  heart. 

'  'To  think  o'  ridin'  in  the  lyibraty  Car  !  ' '  con 
tinued  Esther,  struggling  with  the  shoe  strings. 
"Course  they'll  let  me.  Paw  knows  the  store 
keeper,  and  Mr.  Hoover  kin  tell  'em  who  I  am. 
An'  the  horses,  an'  the  ribbons,  an'  the  music — 
an'  all  the  little  girls  my  age  !  Sister,  it's  awful 
never  to  have  any  little  girls  to  play  with  !  I 
guess  maw  don't  know  how  I've  wanted  'em, 
or  she'd  of  took  me  to  town  sometimes.  I 
ain'  t  never  been  anywheres — except  to  Mis'  Bun- 
nels's  fun'ral,  when  the  minister  prayed  so  long," 
she  added,  with  a  pious  after- thought. 

It  was  a  happy  child  that  was  lifted  to  the 
back  of  the  most  trustworthy  of  the  plow-horses 
to  be  escorted  to  the  celebration  by  "Mr.  Hoover, ' ' 
the  hired  man.  The  face  under  the  cheap  straw 
hat,  with  its  wreath  of  pink  and  green  artificial 
flowers,  was  almost  pathetically  radiant.  To  that 
poor  little  heart  so  hungry  for  pleasure,  there 


ESTHER'S 

could  be  no  bliss  so  supreme  as  a  ride  in  the  vil 
lage  "Libraty  Car" — to  be  one  of  the  states,  pref 
erably  "Oregon  !  "  To  hear  the  music  and  hold  a 
flag,  and  sit  close  to  little  girls  of  her  own  age  who 
would  smile  kindly  at  her  and,  perhaps,  even  ask 
her  name  shyly,  and  take  her  home  with  them  to 
see  their  dolls. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  grasping  the  reins  in  her  thin 
hands,  "I'm  all  of  a  tremble  !  Just  like  maw  on 
wash  days  !  Only  I  ain't  tired — I'm  just  glad." 

There  were  shifting  groups  of  children  in  front 
of  the  school  house.  Kvery  thing — even  the  white 
houses  with  their  green  blinds  and  neat  door- 
yards — seemed  strange  and  over-powering  to 
Esther.  The  buoyancy  with  which  she  had  sur 
veyed  the  world  from  the  back  of  a  tall  horse 
gave  way  to  sudden  timidity  and  self-consciousness. 
Mr.  Hoover  put  her  down  in  the  midst  of  the 
children.  "There,  now,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "play 
around  with  the  little  girls  like  a  nice  body  while 
I  put  up  the  horses. ' ' 

A  terrible  loneliness  came  upon  Esther  as  she 
watched  him  leading  away  the  horses.  All  those 
merry  children  chattering  and  shouting,  and  not , 
one  speaking  to  her  or  taking  the  slightest  notice 
of  her.  She  realized  with  a  suddenness  that 
dazed  her  and  blurred  everything  before  her 
country  eyes  that  she  was  very,  very  different 
from  them — why,  every  one  of  the  little  girls  was 

24 


dressed  in  pure,  soft  white,  with  a  beautiful 
sash  and  bows;  all  wore  pretty  slippers.  There 
was  not  one  copper-toed  shoe  among  them  ! 

Her  heart  came  up  into  her  thin,  little  throat 
and  beat  and  beat  there.  She  wished  that  she 
might  sit  down  and  hide  her  shoes,  but  then  the 
dress  was  just  as  bad.  That  couldn't  be  hidden. 
So  she  stood  awkwardly  in  their  midst,  stiff  and 
motionless,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  ought  to 
have  touched  somebody's  heart. 

Then  the  "Liberty  Car"  came,  drawn  by  six 
noble  white  horses  decorated  with  flags,  ribbons 
and  rosettes,  and  stepping  out  oh,  so  proudly  in 
perfect  time  with  the  village  band.  Esther  forgot 
her  buff  calico  dress  and  her  copper-toed  shoes  in 
the  exquisite  delight  of  that  moment. 

The  little  girls  were  placed  in  the  car.  Each 
carried  a  banner  on  which  was  painted  the  name 
of  a  state.  What  graceful,  dancing  little  bodies 
they  were,  and  how  their  feet  twinkled  and  could 
not  be  quiet !  When  '  'Oregon"  went  proudly  by, 
Esther's  heart  sank.  She  wondered  which  state 
the}7  would  give  to  her. 

The  band  stopped  playing.  All  the  girls  were 
seated;  somehow  there  seemed  to  be  no  place  left 
for  another.  Esther  went  forward  bravely 
and  set  one  copper-toed  shoe  on  the  step  of  the 
car.  The  ladies  in  charge  looked  at  her; 
then,  at  each  other. 

25 


ESTHER'S  "FOURTH" 

"Hello,  Country  !"  cried  a  boy's  shrill  voice 
behind  her  suddenly.  "My  stars!  She  thinks 
she's  goin'  in  the  car.  What  a  jay ! " 

Esther  stood  as  if  petrified  with  her  foot  still 
on  the  step.  She  felt  that  they  were  all  looking 
at  her.  What  terrible  things  human  eyes  can 
be  !  A  kind  of  terror  took  hold  of  her.  She 
trembled.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  stillness 
about  her. 

"Can't  I  go?  "  she  said  to  one  of  the  ladies. 
Her  heart  was  beating  so  hard  and  so  fast  in  her 
throat  that  her  voice  sounded  far  away  to  her. 
"My  paw  knows  Mr.  Mallory,  the  store-keeper. 
We  live  down  by  the  river  on  the  Nesley  place. 
We're  poor,  but  my  paw  alwus  pays  his  debts.  I 
come  with  Mr.  Hoover;  he's  gone  to  put  up  the 
horses." 

It  was  spoken — the  poor  little  speech,  at  once 
passionate  and  despairing  as  any  prayer  to  God. 
Then  it  was  that  Esther  learned  that  there  are 
silences  which  are  harder  to  bear  than  the  wildest 
tumultc 

But  presently  one  of  the  ladies  said,  very  kind 
ly — "Why,  I  am  so  sorry,  little  girl,  but  you  see 
__er —  aii  the  little  girls  who  ride  in  the  car  must 
— er — be  dressed  in  white. ' ' 

Esther  removed  her  foot  heavily  from  the 
step  and  stood  back. 

'  '  Oh,  look .' ' '   cried  ' '  Oregon' ' ,  leaning  from  the 

26 


ESTHER'S  " FOURTH " 

car.  "She  wanted  to  ride  m  here  \  In  a  yellow 
calico  dress  and  copper- toed  shoes  ! ' ' 

Then  the  band  played,  the  horses  pranced  and 
tossed  their  heads,  the  flags  and  banners  floated 
on  the  breeze,  and  the  beautiful  car  moved  away. 

Esther  stood  looking  after  it  until  she  heard  Mr. 
Hoover's  voice  at  her  side.  "W'y,  what  a  funny 
little  girl !  There  the  car's  gone,  an'  she  didn't 
go  an'  git  in  it,  after  all !  Did  anybody  ever  see 
sech  a  funny  little  girl  ?  After  gittin'  up  so  airly, 
an'  hurryin'  everybody  so  for  fear  she'd  be  late, 
an'  a-talkin'  about  ridin'  in  the  I^ibraty  Car  for 
months — an'  then  to  go  an'  not  git  in  it  after 
all!" 

Esther  turned  with  a  bursting  heart.  She 
threw  herself  passionately  into  his  arms  and  hid 
her  face  on  his  breast. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  I 
want  to  go  home  ! " 


THE   BLOW-OUT  AT   JENKINS'S    GROCERY 


THE  BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

The  hands  of  the  big,  round  clock  in  Mr.  Jen 
kins's  grocery  store  pointed  to  eleven.  Mr.  Jen 
kins  was  tying  a  string  around  a  paper  bag  con 
taining  a  dollar's  worth  of  sugar.  He  held  one 
end  of  the  string  between  his  teeth.  His  three 
clerks  were  going  around  the  store  with  little 
stiff  prances  of  deference  to  the  customers  they 
were  serving.  It  was  the  night  before  Christmas. . 
They  were  all  so  worn  out  that  their  attempts  at 
smiles  were  only  painful  contortions. 

Mr.  Jenkins  looked  at  the  clock.  Then  his 
eyes  went  in  a  hurried  glance  of  pity  to  a  woman 
sitting  on  a  high  stool  close  to  the  window.  Her 
feet  were  drawn  up  on  the  top  rung,  and  her  thin 
shoulders  stooped  over  her  chest.  She  had 
sunken  cheeks  and  hollow  eyes;  her  cheek-bones 
stood  out  sharply. 

For  two  hours  she  had  sat  there  almost  motion 
less.  Three  times  she  had  lifted  her  head  and 
fixed  a  strained  gaze  upon  Mr.  Jenkins  and 
asked,  "D'yuh  want  to  shet  up?"  Each  time, 
receiving  an  answer  in  the  negative,  she  had  sunk 
back  into  the  same  attitude  of  brute-like  waiting. 

It  was  a  wild  night.     The  rain  drove  its  long, 
31 


BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

slanting  lances  down  the  window-panes.  The 
wind  howled  around  corners,  banged  loose  shut 
ters,  creaked  swinging  sign-boards  to  and  fro,  and 
vexed  the  telephone  wires  to  shrill,  continuous 
screaming.  Fierce  gusts  swept  in  when  the  door 
was  opened. 

Christmas  shoppers  came  and  went.  The 
woman  saw  nothing  inside  the  store.  Her 
eyes  were  set  on  the  doors  of  a  brightly  lighted 
saloon  across  the  street. 

It  was  a  small,  new  "boom"  town  on  Puget 
Sound.  There  was  a  saloon  on  every  corner, 
and  a  brass  band  in  every  saloon.  The  "estab 
lishment'  '  opposite  was  having  its  '  'opening' '  that 
night.  '  'At  home' '  cards  in  square  envelopes  had 
been  sent  out  to  desirable  patrons  during  the 
previous  week.  That  day,  during  an  hour's  sun 
shine,  a  yellow  chariot,  drawn  by  six  cream-col 
ored  horses  with  snow-white  manes  and  tails,  had 
gone  slowly  through  the  streets,  bearing  the  mem 
bers  of  the  band  clad  in  white  and  gold.  It  was 
followed  by  three  open  carriages,  gay  with  the 
actresses  who  were  to  dance  and  sing  that  night 
on  the  stage  in  the  rear  of  the  saloon.  All  had 
yellow  hair  and  were  dressed  in  yellow  with  white 
silk  sashes,  and  white  ostrich  plumes  falling  to 
their  shoulders.  It  was  a  gorgeous  procession, 
and  it  "drew." 

The  woman  lived  out  in  the  Grand  View  addi- 

32 


BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

tion.  The  addition  consisted  mainly  of  cabins 
built  of  "shakes"  and  charred  stumps.  The 
grand  view  was  to  come  some  ten  or  twenty 
years  later  on,  when  the  forests  surrounding  the 
addition  had  taken  their  departure.  It  was  a  full 
mile  from  the  store. 

She  had  walked  in  with  her  husband  through 
the  rain  and  slush  after  putting  six  small  children 
to  bed.  They  were  very  poor.  Her  husband  was 
shiftless.  It  was  whispered  of  them  by  their  neigh 
bors  that  they  couldn't  get  credit  for  "two  bits" 
except  at  the  saloons. 

A  relative  had  sent  the  woman  ten  dollars  for  a 
Christmas  gift.  She  had  gone  wild  with  joy. 
Ten  dollars !  It  was  wealth.  For  once  the 
children  should  have  a  real  Christmas — a  good 
dinner,  toys,  candy  !  Of  all  things,  there  should 
be  a  wax  doll  for  the  little  girl  who  had  cried  for 
one  every  Christmas,  and  never  even  had  one  in 
her  arms.  Just  for  this  one  time  they  should  be 
happy — like  other  children;  and  she  should  be 
happy  in  their  happiness — like  other  mothers. 
What  did  it  matter  that  she  had  only  two  calico 
dresses  and  one  pair  of  shoes,  half-soled  at  that, 
and  capped  across  the  toes  ? 

Her  husband  had  entered  into  her  childish  joy. 
He  was  kind  and  affectionate — when  he  was  sober. 
That  was  why  she  had  never  had  the  heart  to 
leave  him.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 


THE  BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

always  needing,  pleading  for — and,  alas  !  receiv 
ing — forgiveness;  one  of  those  men  whom  their 
women  love  passionately  and  cling  to  forever. 

He  promised  her  solemnly  that  he  would  not 
drink  a  drop  that  Christmas — so  solemnly  that 
she  believed  him.  He  had  helped  her  to  wash 
the  dishes  and  put  the  children  to  bed.  And  he 
had  kissed  her. 

Her  face  had  been  radiant  when  they  came  into 
Mr.  Jenkins's  store.  That  poor,  gray  face  with  its 
sunken  cheeks  and  eyes  !  They  bought  a  turkey — • 
and  with  what  anxious  care  she  had  selected  it, 
testing  its  tenderness,  balancing  it  on  her  bony 
hands,  examining  the  scales  with  keen,  narrowed 
eyes  when  it  was  weighed;  and  a  quart  of  cran 
berries,  a  can  of  mince  meat  and  a  can  of  plum 
pudding,  a  head  of  celery,  a  pint  of  Olympia 
oysters,  candy,  nuts — and  then  the  toys  !  She 
trembled  with  eagerness.  Her  husband  stood 
watching  her,  smiling  good-humoredly,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Mr.  Jenkins  indulged  in  some 
serious  speculation  as  to  where  the  money  was 
coming  from  to  pay  for  all  this  ''blow-out".  He 
set  his  lips  together  and  resolved  that  the  '  'blow 
out'  '  should  not  leave  the  store,  under  any  amount 
of  promises,  until  the  cash  paying  for  it  was  in 
his  cash-drawer. 

Suddenly  the  band  began  to  play  across  the 
street.  The  man  threw  up  his  head  like  an  old 
34 


THE  BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

war-horse  at  the  sound  of  a  bugle  note.  A  fire 
came  into  his  eyes;  into  his  face  a  flush  of  excite 
ment.  He  walked  down  to  the  window  and 
stood  looking  out,  jingling  some  keys  in  his 
pocket.  He  breathed  quickly. 

After  a  few  moments  he  went  back  to  his  wife. 
Mr.  Jenkins  had  stepped  away  to  speak  to  an 
other  customer. 

"Say,  Molly,  old  girl,"  he  said  affectionately, 
without  looking  at  her,  "yuh  can  spare  me 
enough  out  o'  that  tenner  to  git  a  plug  o'  tobaccer 
for  Christmas,  can't  yuh?  " 

"W'y— I  guess  so"  said  she  slowly.  The 
first  cloud  fell  on  her  happy  face. 

"Well,  jest  let  me  have  it,  an'  I'll  run  out  an* 
be  back  before  yuh' re  ready  to  pay  for  these 
here  things.  I'll  only  git  two  bits'  worth." 

She  turned  very  pale. 

"  Can't  yuh  git  it  here,  Mart?  " 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  whisper;  "his'n  ain't  fit  to 
chew.  I'll  be  right  back,  Molly — honest. " 

She  stood  motionless,  her  eyes  cast  down, 
thinking.  If  she  refused,  he  would  be  angry  and 
remain  away  from  home  all  the  next  day  to  pay 
her  for  the  insult.  If  she  gave  it  to  him — well, 
she  would  have  to  take  the  chances.  But  oh,  her 
hand  shook  as  she  drew  the  small  gold  piece  from 
her  shabby  purse  and  reached  it  to  him.  His 
big,  warm  hand  closed  over  it. 

35 


THE  BIyOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S    GROCERY 

She  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  spoke  the 
passionate  prayer  that  her  lips  could  not  utter. 

* 'Don't  stay  long,  Mart,"  she  whispered,  not 
daring  to  say  more. 

"I  won't,  Molly,"  he  whispered  back.  'Til 
hurry  up.  Git  anything  yuh  want. ' ' 

She  finished  her  poor  shopping.  Mr.  Jenkins 
wrapped  everything  up  neatly.  Then  he  rubbed 
his  hands  together  and  looked  at  her,  and  said: 
"Well,  there  now,  Mis'  Dupen." 

"I — jest  lay  'em  all  together  there  on  the 
counter,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "I'll  have  to 
wait  till  Mart  comes  back  before  I  can  pay  yuh." 

"I  see  him  go  into  the  s'loon  over  there," 
piped  out  the  errand  boy  shrilly. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  climbed  upon 
the  high  stool  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  saloon 
opposite  and  sat  there. 

She  saw  nothing  but  the  glare  of  those'  win 
dows  and  the  light  streaming  out  when  the  doors 
opened.  She  heard  nothing  but  the  torturing 
blare  of  the  music.  After  awhile  something  com 
menced  beating  painfully  in  her  throat  and  tem 
ples.  Her  limbs  grew  stiff — she  was  scarcely 
conscious  that  they  ached.  Once  she  shuddered 
strongly,  as  dogs  do  when  they  lie  in  the  cold, 
waiting. 

At  twelve  o'clock  Mr.  Jenkins  touched  her 
kindly  on  the  arm.  She  looked  up  with  a  start, 


THE  BLOW-OUT  AT  JENKINS'S  GROCERY 

Her  face  was  gray  and  old;  her  eyes  were  almost 
wild  in  their  strained  despair. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  shet  up  now,  Mis' 
Dupen,"  he  said  apologetically.  "I'm  sorry — " 

She  got  down  from  the  stool  at  once.  "I  can't 
take  them  things,"  she  said,  almost  whispering. 
"I  hate  to  of  put  yuh  to  all  that  trouble  of  doin* 
'em  up.  I  thought — but  I  can't  take  'em.  I  hope 
yuh  won't  mind — very  much."  Her  bony 
fingers  twisted  together  under  her  thin  shawl. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins  in  an 
embarrassed  way.  She  moved  stiffly  to  the  door. 
He  put  out  the  lights  and  followed  her.  He  felt 
mean,  somehow.  For  one  second  he  hesitated, 
then  he  locked  the  door,  and  gave  it  a  shake  to 
make  sure  that  it  was  all  right. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "good  night.  I  wish  you  a 
mer— " 

"Good  night,"  said  the  woman.  She  was 
turning  away  when  the  doors  of  the  saloon  opened 
for  two  or  three  men  to  enter.  The  music,  which 
had  ceased  for  a  few  minutes,  struck  up  another 
air — a  familiar  air. 

She  burst  suddenly    into    wild    and    terrible 

laughter.       "Oh,    my    Lord,"    she    cried    out, 

"they're  a-playin'  'Home,  Sweet    Home  !'      In 

there!      Oh,    my    Lord!       Wouldn't    that    kill 

yuh!" 


THE;  TAKINJ  IN  OF  OI<D  MIS'  I,ANB 


THK  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 

1 '  Huhy  !  Huhy  !  Pleg  take  that  muley  cow  ! 
Huhy!" 

"What  she  doin',  maw?" 

"Why,  she's  just  a-holdin'  her  head  over  the 
bars,  an'  a-bawlin' !  Tryin'  to  get  into  the  little 
correll  where  her  ca'f  is  !  I  wish  paw  'd  of  done 
as  I  told  him  an'  put  her  into  the  up  meadow. 
If  there's  anything  on  earth  I  abominate  it's  to 
hear  a  cow  bawl." 

Mrs.  Bridges  gathered  up  several  sticks  of  wood 
from  the  box  in  the  corner  by  the  stove,  and 
going  out  into  the  yard,  threw  them  with  power 
ful  movements  of  her  bare  arm  in  the  direction 
of  the  bars.  The  cow  lowered  her  hornless  head 
and  shook  it  defiantly  at  her,  but  held  her  ground . 
Isaphene  stood  in  the  open  door,  laughing.  She 
was  making  a  cake.  She  beat  the  mixture  with 
a  long-handled  tin  spoon  while  watching  the 
fruitless  attack.  She  had  reddish  brown  hair 
that  swept  away  from  her  brow  and  temples  in 
waves  so  deep  you  could  have  lost  your  finger  in 
any  one  of  them;  and  good,  honest  gray  eyes, 
and  a  mouth  that  was  worth  kissing.  She  wore 
a  blue  cotton  gown  that  looked  as  if  it  had  just 


TAKIN  IN  OF  OI,D  MIS 

left  the  ironing- table.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  to 
her  elbows. 

"  It  don't  do  any  good,  maw,"  she  said,  as  her 
mother  returned  with  a  defeated  air.  "She  just 
bawls  an'  shakes  her  head  right  in  your  face. 
Look  at  her!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  look  at  her.  It  seems  to 
me  your  paw  might  of  drove  her  to  the  up 
meadow,  seein's  he  was  goin'  right  up  by  there. 
It  ain't  like  as  if  he'd  of  had  to  go  out  o'  his 
way.  It  aggravates  me  offul." 

She  threw  the  last  stick  of  wood  into  the  box, 
and  brushed  the  tiny  splinters  off  her  arm  and 
sleeves. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  might  as  well  string  them 
beans  for  dinner  before  I  clean  up." 

She  took  a  large  milkpan,  filled  with  beans, 
from  the  table  and  sat  down  near  the  window. 

"  Isaphene,"  she  said,  presently,  ' '  what  do  you 
say  to  an  organ,  an'  a  horse  an'  buggy  ?  A  horse 
with  some  style  about  him,  that  you  could  ride  or 
drive,  an'  that  'u'd  always  be  up  when  you 
wanted  to  go  to  town  !" 

"What  do  I  say?"  The  girl  turned  and 
looked  at  her  mother  as  if  she  feared  one  of  them 
had  lost  her  senses;  then  she  returned  to  her 
cake-beating  with  an  air  of  good-natured  disdain. 

1  i  Oh,  you  can  smile  an'  turn  your  head  on  one 
side,  but  you'll  whistle  another  tune  before  long— 

42 


THE  TAKIN*  IN  OF  OLD  MTS* 

or  I'll  miss  my  guess.  Isaphene,  I've  been  savin* 
up  chicken  an'  butter  money  ever  since  we  come 
to  Puget  Sound  ;  then  I've  always  got  the  money 
for.  the  strawberry  crop,  an'  for  the  geese  an' 
turkeys,  an'  the  calves,  an'  so  on.  Your  paw's 
been  real  good  about  such  things." 

"I  don't  call  it  bein'  good,"  said  Isaphene. 
"Why  shouldn't  he  let  you  have  the  money? 
You  planted,  an'  weeded,  an'  picked  the  straw 
berries  ;  an'  you  fed  an'  set  the  chickens,  an' 
gethered  the  eggs  ;  an'  you've  had  all  the  tendin' 
of  the  geese  an'  turkeys  an'  calves — to  say  nothin' 
of  the  cows  bawlin'  over  the  bars,"  she  added, 
with  a  sly  laugh.  "  I'd  say  you  only  had  your 
rights  when  you  get  the  money  for  such  things." 

11  Oh,  yes,  that's  fine  talk."  Mrs.  Bridges 
nodded  her  head  with  an  air  of  experience.  ' '  But 
it  ain't  all  men-folks  that  gives  you  your  rights  ; 
so  when  one  does,  I  say  he  deserves  credit." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  claim  anybody  'd  been  good 
to  me  just  because  he  give  me  what  I'd  worked 
for  an'  earned.  Now,  if  he'd  give  you  all  the 
money  from  the  potato  patch  every  year,  or  the 
hay  meadow,  or  anything  he'd  done  all  the  work- 
in*  with  himself — I'd  call  that  good  in  him.  He 
never  done  anything  like  that,  did  he  ?' ' 

"No,  he  never,"  replied  Mrs.  Bridges,  testily. 
"An'  what's  more,  he  ain't  likely  to — nor  any 
other  man  I  know  of!  If  you  get  a  man  that 

43 


TAKIN'  IK  OF  OLD  MIS' 
• 

gives  you  all  you  work  for  an'  earn,  you'll  be 
lucky — with  all  your  airs  !" 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  manage  to  get  my  rights, 
somehow,"  said  Isaphene,  beginning  to  butter 
the  cake-pan. 

"  Somebody's  comin'  ! "  exclaimed  her  mother, 
lowering  her  voice  to  a  mysterious  whisper. 

"Who  is  it?"  Isaphene  stood  up  straight, 
with  that  little  quick  beating  of  mingled  pleasure 
and  dismay  that  the  cry  of  company  brings  to 
country  hearts. 

"  I  can't  see.  I  don't  want  to  be  caught  peepin' . 
I  can  see  it's  a  woman,  though  ;  she's  just  passin' 
the  row  of  hollyhocks.  Can't  you  stoop  down 
an'  peep  ?  She  won't  see  you  'way  over  there  by 
the  table." 

Isaphene  stooped  and  peered  cautiously  through 
the  wild  cucumber  vines  that  rioted  over  the 
kitchen  window. 

"Oh,  it's  Mis'  Hanna!" 

"  My  goodness  !  An'  the  way  this  house  looks  ! 
You'll  have  to  bring  her  out  here  'n  the  kitchen, 
too.  I  s'pose  she's  come  to  spend  the  day — she's 
got  her  bag  with  her,  ain't  she?" 

"Yes.  What '11  we  have  for  dinner?  I  ain't 
goin'  to  cut  this  cake  for  her.  I  want  this  for 
Sund'y." 

"  Why,  we've  got  corn  beef  to  boil,  an'  a  head 
o'  cabbage;  an'  these  here  beans ;  an',  of  course, 

44 


THE  TAKIN*  IN  OF  OI,D  MIS*  I<ANE 

potatoes ;  an*  watermelon  perserves.  An'  you 
can  make  a  custerd  pie.  I  guess  that's  a  good 
enough  dinner  for  her.  There  !  She's  knockin'. 
Open  the  door,  can't  you  ?  Well,  if  I  ever  ! 
Ivook  at  that  grease-spot  on  the  floor  !" 

''Well,  I  didn't  spill  it." 

"Who  did,  then,  missy?" 

41  Well,  /never." 

Isaphene  went  to  the  front  door,  returning 
presently  with  a  tall,  thin  lady. 

"  Here's  Mis'  Hanna,  maw,"  she  said,  with  the 
air  of  having  made  a  pleasant  discovery.  Mrs. 
Bridges  got  up,  greatly  surprised,  and  shook 
hands  with  her  visitor  with  exaggerated  delight. 

"Well,  I'll  declare  !  It's  really  you,  is  it  ?  At 
last !  Well,  set  right  down  an'  take  off  your 
things.  Isaphene,  take  Mis'  Hanna's  things. 
My  !  ain't  it  warm,  walkin'  ?" 

1 '  It  is  so. ' '  The  visitor  gave  her  bonnet  to  Isa 
phene,  dropping  her  black  mitts  into  it  after 
rolling  them  carefully  together.  "But  it's  al 
ways  nice  an'  cool  in  your  kitchen."  Her  eyes 
wandered  about  with  a  look  of  unabashed  curios 
ity  that  took  in  everything.  "I  brought  my 
crochet  with  me." 

"I'm  glad  you  did.  You'll  have  to  excuse 
the  looks  o'  things.  Any  news?" 

"  None  perticular."     Mrs.  Hnnna  be?an  to  cro- 


45 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OI,D  MIS*  I.ANE 


chet,  holding  the  work  close  to  her  face.  "Ain't 
it  too  bad  about  poor,  old  Mis'  Lane?" 

"What  about  her?"  Mrs.  Bridges  snapped  a 
bean-pod  into  three  pieces,  and  looked  at  her  vis 
itor  with  a  kind  of  pleased  expectancy  —  as  if  al 
most  any  news,  however  dreadful,  would  be 
welcome  as  a  relief  to  the  monotony  of  existence. 
"Is  she  dead?" 

"No,  she  ain't  dead;  but  the  poor,  old  crea 
ture  'd  better  be.  She's  got  to  go  to  the  poor- 
farm,  after  all." 

There  was  silence  in  the  big  kitchen,  save  for 
the  rasp  of  the  crochet  needle  through  the  wool 
and  the  snapping  of  the  beans.  A  soft  wind  came 
in  the  window  and  drummed  with  the  lightest  oi 
touches  on  Mrs.  Bridges'  s  temples.  It  brought  all 
the  sweets  of  the  old-fashioned  flower-garden  with 
it  —  the  mingled  breaths  of  mignonette,  stock, 
sweet  lavender,  sweet  peas  and  clove  pinks.  The 
whole  kitchen  was  filled  with  the  fragrance.  And 
what  a  big,  cheerful  kitchen  it  was  !  Mrs.  Bridges 
contrasted  it  unconsciously  with  the  poor-farm 
kitchen,  and  almost  shivered,  warm  though  the 
day  was. 

"What's  her  childern  about?"  she  asked, 
sharply. 

"  Oh,  her  childern  !"  replied  Mrs.  Hanna,  with 
a  contemptuous  air.  '  '  What  does  her  childern 
amount  to,  I'd  like  to  know." 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS'  I,ANE 

"Her  son  's  got  a  good,  coinf  table  house  an* 
farm." 

"Well,  what  if  he  has?  He  got  it  with  his 
wife,  didn't  he?  An'  M'lissy  won't  let  his  poor, 
old  mother  set  foot  inside  the  house  !  I  don't  say 
she  is  a  pleasant  body  to  have  about — she's  cross 
an'  sick  most  all  the  time,  an'  childish.  But 
that  ain't  sayin'  her  childern  oughtn't  to  put  up 
with  her  disagreeableness." 

"  She's  got  a  married  daughter,  ain't  she?" 

"Yes,  she's  got  a  married  daughter."  Mrs. 
Hanna  closed  her  lips  tightly  together  and  looked 
as  if  she  might  say  something,  if  she  chose,  that 
would  create  a  sensation. 

"Well,  ain't  she  got  a  good  enough  home  to 
keep  her  mother  in  ?' ' 

*  *  Yes,  she  has.  But  she  got  her  home  along 
with  her  husband,  an'  he  won't  have  the  old  soul 
any  more  'n  M'lissy  would." 

There  was  another  silence.  Isaphene  had  put 
the  cake  in  the  oven.  She  knelt  on  the  floor  and 
opened  the  door  very  softly  now  and  then,  to  see 
that  it  was  not  browning  too  fast.  The  heat  of 
the  oven  had  crimsoned  her  face  and  arms. 

"  Guess  you'd  best  put  a  piece  o'  paper  on  top 
o'  that  cake,"  said  her  mother.  "It  smells  kind 
o'  burny  like." 

"  It's  all  right,  maw." 

Mrs.  Bridges  looked  out  the  window. 

47 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  otD  MIS'  I,ANE 


Ain't  my  flowers  doin'  well,  though,  Mis' 
Hanna?" 

"They  are  that.  When  I  come  up  the  walk 
I  couldn't  help  thiiikin'  of  poor,  old  Mis'  I^ane." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  her?"  Resent 
ment  bristled  in  Mrs.  Bridges'  s  tone  and  look. 

Mrs.  Hanna  stopped  crocheting,  but  held  her 
hands  stationary,  almost  level  with  her  eyes,  and 
looked  over  them  in  surprise  at  her  questioner. 

11  Why,  she  ust  to  live  here,  you  know." 

"  She  did!     In  this  house  ?" 

'  *  Why,  yes.  Didn'  t  you  know  that  ?  Oh,  they 
ust  to  be  right  well  off  in  her  husband's  time.  I 
visited  here  consid'rable.  My  !  the  good  things 
she  always  had  to  eat.  I  can  taste  'em  yet." 

"  Hunh  !  I'm  sorry  I  can't  give  you  as  good 
as  she  did,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges,  stiffly. 

"  Well,  as  if  you  didn't  !  You  set  a  beautiful 
table,  Mis'  Bridges,  an',  what's  more,  that's  your 
reputation  all  over.  Everybody  says  that  about 
you." 

Mrs.  Bridges  smiled  deprecatingly,  with  a  slight 
blush  of  pleasure. 

*  *  They  do,  Mis'  Bridges.  I  just  told  you  about 
Mis'  I^ane  because  you'd  never  think  it  now  of 
the  poor,  old  creature.  An'  such  flowers  as  she 
ust  to  have  on  both  sides  that  walk  !  I/ark-spurs, 
an'  sweet-williams,  an'  bach'  lor  's-buttons,  an* 
mournin'  -widows,  an'  pumgranates,  an'  all  kinds. 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 


Guess  you  didn't  know  she  set  out  that  pink  cab 
bage-rose  at  the  north  end  o'  the  front  porch,  did 
you  ?  An'  that  hop-vine  that  you've  got  trained 
over  your  parlor  window  —  set  that  out,  too.  An* 
that  row  o'  young  alders  between  here  an'  the 
barn  —  she  set  'em  all  out  with  her  own  hands  ;  dug 
the  holes  herself,  an'  all.  It's  funny  she  never 
told  you  she  lived  here." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges,  slowly  and 
thoughtfully. 

"It's  a  wonder  to  me  she  never  broke  down 
an*  cried  when  she  was  visitin'  here.  She  can't 
so  much  as  mention  the  place  without  cry  in'." 

A  dull  red  came  into  Mrs.  Bridges'  s  face. 

"  She  never  visited  here." 

"Never  visited  here!"  Mrs.  Hanna  laid  her 
crochet  and  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  stared. 
"Why,  she  visited  ev'ry  where.  That's  how  she 
managed  to  keep  out  o'  the  poor-house  so  long. 
Ev'rybody  was  reel  consid'  rate  about  invitin'  her. 
But  I  expect  she  didn't  like  to  come  here  because 
she  thought  so  much  o'  the  place." 

Isaphene  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  her 
mother,  but  the  look  was  not  returned.  The 
beans  were  sputtering  nervously  into  the  pan. 

"Ain't  you  got  about  enough,  maw?"  she 
said.  "  That  pan  seems  to  be  gettin'  hefty." 

"Yes,  I  guess."  She  got  up,  brushing  the 
strings  off  her  apron,  and  set  the  pan  on  the 

49 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 


table.  "  I'll  watch  the  cake  now,  Isaphene.  You 
put  the  beans  on  in  the  pot  to  boil.  Put  a  piece 
o'  that  salt  pork  in  with  'em.  Better  get  'em  on 
right  away.  It's  pretty  near  eleven.  Ain't  this 
oven  too  hot  with  the  door  shet  ?'  ' 

Then  the  pleasant  preparations  for  dinner  went 
on.  The  beans  soon  commenced  to  boil,  and  an 
appetizing  odor  floated  through  the  kitchen.  The 
potatoes  were  pared  —  big,  white  fellows,  smooth 
and  long  —  with  a  sharp,  thin  knife,  round  and 
round  and  round,  each  without  a  break  until  the 
whole  paring  had  curled  itself  about  Isaphene'  s 
pretty  arm  almost  to  the  elbow.  The  cabbage  was 
chopped  finely  for  the  cold-slaw,  and  the  vinegar 
and  butter  set  on  the  stove  in  a  saucepan  to  heat. 
Then  Mrs.  Bridges  '  *  set  "  the  table,  covering  it 
first  with  a  red  cloth  having  a  white  border  and 
fringe.  In  the  middle  of  the  table  she  placed  an 
uncommonly  large,  six-bottled  caster. 

"  I  guess  you'll  excuse  a  red  tablecloth,  Mis' 
Hanna.  The  men-folks  get  their  shirt-sleeves  so 
dirty  out  in  the  fields  that  you  can't  keep  a  white 
one  clean  no  time." 

"  I  use  red  ones  myself  most  of  the  time,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Hanna,  crocheting  industriously.  "  It 
saves  washin'.  I  guess  poor  Mis'  L,ane  '11  have 
to  see  the  old  place  after  all  these  years,  whether 
she  wants  or  not.  They'll  take  her  right  pasl 
here  to  the  poor-farm." 

5° 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OI,D  MIS' 


Mrs.  Bridges  set  on  the  table  a  white  plate 
holding  a  big  square  of  yellow  butter,  and  stood 
looking  through  the  open  door,  down  the  path 
with  its  tall  hollyhocks  and  scarlet  poppies  on 
both  sides.  Between  the  house  and  the  barn 
some  wild  mustard  had  grown,  thick  and  tall, 
and  was  now  drifting,  like  a  golden  cloud,  against 
the  pale  blue  sky.  Butterflies  were  throbbing 
through  the  air,  and  grasshoppers  were  crackling 
everywhere.  It  was  all  very  pleasant  and  peace 
ful  ;  while  the  comfortable  house  and  barns,  the 
wide  fields  stretching  away  to  the  forest,  and  the 
cattle  feeding  on  the  hillside  added  an  appear 
ance  of  prosperity.  Mrs.  Bridges  wondered  how 
she  herself  would  feel  —  after  having  loved  the 
place  —  riding  by  to  the  poor-farm.  Then  she 
pulled  herself  together  and  said,  sharply  : 

"I'm  afraid  you  feel  a  draught,  Mis'  Hanna, 
a-settin'  so  clost  to  the  door." 

"Oh,  my,  no;  I  like  it.  I  like  lots  o'  fresh 
air.  Can't  get  it  any  too  fresh  for  me.  If  I  didn't 
have  six  childern  an'  my  own  mother  to  keep,  I'd 
take  her  myself." 

"Take  who?"  Mrs.  Bridges's  voice  rasped 
as  she  asked  the  question.  Isaphene  paused  on 
her  way  to  the  pantry,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Hanna 
with  deeply  thoughtful  eyes. 

"Why,  Mis'  Lane—  who  else?—  before  I'd  let 
her  go  to  the  poor-farm." 

5* 


TAKIN'  IN  otf.oij)  MIS' 


*  '  Well,  I  think  her  childern  ought  to  be  made  to 
take  care  of  her!"  Mrs.  Bridges  went  on  setting 
the  table  with  brisk,  angry  movements.  *  '  That's 
what  I  think  about  it.  The  law  ought  to  take 
holt  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  see  the  law  has  took  holt  of  it," 
said  Mrs.  Hanna,  with  a  grim  smile.  "It  seems 
a  shame  that  there  ain't  somebody  in  the  neigh 
borhood  that  'u'd  take  her  in.  She  ain't  much 
expense,  but  a  good  deal  o'  trouble.  She's  sick, 
in  an'  out  o'  bed,  nigh  onto  all  the  time.  My 
opinion  is  she's  been  soured  by  all  her  troubles  ; 
an'  that  if  somebody  'u'd  only  take  her  in  an'  be 
kind  to  her,  her  temper'  ment  'u'd  emprove  up 
wonderful.  She's  always  mighty  grateful  for 
ev'ry  little  chore  you  do  her.  It  just  makes  my 
heart  ache  to  think  o'  her  a-havin'  to  go  to  the 
poor-house  !" 

Mrs.  Bridges  lifted  her  head  ;  all  the  softness 
and  irresolution  went  out  of  her  face. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  her,"  she  said,  with  an 
air  of  dismissing  a  disagreeable  subject;  "but 
the  world's  full  o'  troubles,  an'  if  you  cried  over 
all  o'  them  you'd  be  a-cryin'  all  the  time.  Isa- 
phene,  you  go  out  an'  blow  that  dinner-horn.  I 
see  the  men-folks  'av'  got  the  horses  about  fod 
dered.  What  did  you  do  ?'  '  she  cried  out,  sharply. 
"Drop  a  smoothin'-iron  on  your  hand?  Well, 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OI<D  MIS' 


my  goodness  !  Why  don't  you  keep  your  eyes 
about  you?  You'll  go  an'  get  a  cancer  yet  1" 

"  I'm  thinkin'  about  buyin'  a  horse  an'  buggy," 
she  announced,  with  stern  triumph,  when  the  girl 
had  gone  out.  '  '  An'  an  organ.  Isaphene's  been 
wantin'  one  most  offul.  I've  give  up  her  paw's 
ever  gettin'  her  one.  First  a  new  harrow,  an' 
then  a  paten'  rake,  an'  then  a  seed-drill  —  an'  then 
my  mercy  "  —  imitating  a  musculine  voice  —  "he 
ain't  got  any  money  left  for  silliness  !  But  I've 
got  some  laid  by.  I'd  like  to  see  his  eyes  when 
he  comes  home  an'  finds  a  bran  new  buggy  with 
a  top  an'  all,  an'  a  horse  that  he  can't  hetch  to  a 
plow,  no  matter  how  bad  he  wants  to  !  I  ain't 
sure  but  I'll  get  a  phaeton." 

"They  ain't  so  strong,  but  they're  handy  to 
get  in  an'  out  of  —  'specially  for  old,  trembly 
knees." 

"  I  ain't  so  old  that  I'm  trembly  !  " 

"Oh,  my  —  no,"  said  Mrs.  Hanna,  with  a  little 
start.  "I  was  just  thinkin'  mebbe  sometimes 
you'd  go  out  to  the  poor-farm  an'  take  poor,  old 
Mis'  Lane  for  a  little  ride.  It  ain't  more'n  five 
miles  from  here,  is  it?  She  ust  to  have  a  horse 
an'  buggy  o'  her  own.  Somehow,  I  can't  get  her 
off  o'  my  mind  at  all  to-day.  I  just  heard  about 
her  as  I  was  a-startin'  for  your  house." 

The  men  came  to  the  house.  They  paused  on 
the  back  porch  to  clean  their  boots  on  the  scraper 

53 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 


and  wash  their  hands  and  faces  with  water  dipped 
from  the  rain-barrel.  Their  faces  shone  like 
brown  marble  when  they  came  in. 


It  was  five  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Hanna,  with  a 
sigh,  began  rolling  the  lace  she  had  crocheted 
around  the  spool,  preparatory  to  taking  her  de 
parture. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go.  I  had  no  idy 
it  was  so  late.  How  the  time  does  go,  a-talkin' . 
I've  had  a  right  nice  time.  Just  see  how  well 
I've  done — crocheted  full  a  yard  since  dinner 
time  !  My  !  how  pretty  that  hop-vine  looks.  It 
makes  awful  nice  shade,  too.  I  guess  when  Mis' 
I^ane  planted  it  she  thought  she'd  be  settin'  undei 
it  herself  to-day — she  took  such  pleasure  in  it." 

The  ladies  were  sitting  on  the  front  porch.  It 
was  cool  and  fragrant  out  there.  The  shadow  of 
the  house  reached  almost  to  the  gate  now.  The 
bees  had  been  drinking  too  many  sweets — greedy 
fellows  ! — and  were  lying  in  the  red  poppies,  dron 
ing  stupidly.  A  soft  wind  was  blowing  from  Pu- 
get  Sound  and  turning  over  the  clover  leaves, 
making  here  a  billow  of  dark  green  and  there  one 
of  light  green  ;  it  was  setting  loose  the  perfume 
of  the  blossoms,  too,  and  sifting  silken  thistle- 
needles  through  the  air.  Along  the  fence  was  a 

54 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 


hedge,  eight  feet  high,  of  the  beautiful  ferns  that 
grow  luxuriantly  in  western  Washington.  The 
pasture  across  the  lane  was  a  tangle  of  royal 
color,  being  massed  in  with  golden-rod,  fire-weed, 
steeple-bush,  yarrow,  and  large  field-daisies  ; 
the  cotton-woods  that  lined  the  creek  at  the  side 
of  the  house  were  snowing.  Here  and  there  the 
sweet  twin-sister  of  the  steeple-bush  lifted  her  pale 
and  fluffy  plumes  ;  and  there  was  one  lovely, 
lavender  company  of  wild  asters. 

Mrs.  Bridges  arose  and  followed  her  guest  into 
the  spare  bedroom. 

'  '  When  they  goin'  to  take  her  to  the  poor-farm  ?" 
she  asked,  abruptly. 

"Day  after  to-morrow.  Ain't  it  awful?  It 
just  makes  me  sick.  I  couldn't  of  eat  a  bite  o' 
dinner  if  I'd  stayed  at  home,  just  for  thinkin' 
about  it.  They  say  the  poor,  old  creature  ain't 
done  nothin'  but  cry  an'  moan  ever  since  she 
knowed  she'd  got  to  go." 

"Here's  your  bag,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges.  "Do 
you  want  I  should  tie  your  veil  ?'  ' 

"No,  thanks  ;  I  guess  I  won't  put  It  on.  If  I 
didn't  have  such  a  big  fam'ly  an'  my  own  mother 
to  keep,  I'd  take  her  in  myself  before  I'd  see  her 
go  to  the  poor-house.  If  I  had  a  small  fam'ly 
an'  plenty  o'  room,  I  declare  my  conscience 
wouldn't  let  me  sleep  nights." 


55 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 

A  deep  red  glow  spread  over  Mrs.  Bridges' s 
face. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  needn't  to  keep  a-hintin'  for 
me  to  take  her,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"  You!"  Mrs.  Hanna  uttered  the  word  in  a 
tone  that  was  an  unintentional  insult ;  in  fact, 
Mrs.  Bridges  affirmed  afterward  that  her  look  of 
astonishment,  and,  for  that  matter,  her  whole  air 
of  dazed  incredulity  were  insulting.  "  I  never 
once  thought  o'  you, ' '  she  said,  with  an  earnest 
ness  that  could  not  be  doubted. 

"Why  not  o'  me?"  demanded  Mrs.  Bridges, 
showing  something  of  her  resentment.  "  What 
you  been  talkin'  an'  harpin'  about  her  all  day 
for,  if  you  wasn't  hintin'  for  me  to  take  her  in?" 

1  *  I  never  thought  o'  such  a  thing, ' '  repeated 
her  visitor,  still  looking  rather  helplessly  dazed. 
1  *  I  talked  about  it  because  it  was  on  my  mind, 
heavy,  too  ;  an' ,  I  guess,  because  I  wanted  to  talk 
my  conscience  down." 

Mrs.  Bridges  cooled  off  a  little  and  folded  her 
hands  over  the  bedpost. 

"Well,  if  you  wasn't  hintin',"  she  said,  in  a 
conciliatory  tone,  "it's  all  right.  You  kep' 
harpin'  on  the  same  string  till  I  thought  you  was ; 
an'  it  riles  me  offul  to  be  hinted  at.  I'll  take 
anything  right  out  to  my  face,  so's  I  can  answer 
it,  but  I  won't  be  hinted  at.  "But  why"— hav 
ing  rid  herself  of  the  grievance  she  at  once  swung 

56 


TAKIN'  IN  OP  OI.D  MIS'  I,ANB 


around  to  the  insult  —  "  why  didn't  you  think  o* 
me?" 

Mrs.  Hanna  cleared  her  throat  and  began  to 
unroll  her  mitts. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  just  why,"  she  replied, 
helplessly.  She  drew  the  mitts  on,  smoothing 
them  well  up  over  her  thin  wrists.  '  *  I  don'  t  know 
why,  I'm  sure.  I'd  thought  o'  most  ev'rybody 
in  the  neighborhood  —  but  you  never  come  into 
my  head  onct.  I  was  as  innocent  o*  hintin'  as  a 
babe  unborn." 

Mrs.  Bridges  drew  a  long  breath  noiselessly. 

"Well,"  she  said,  absent-mindedly,  "come 
again,  Mis'  Hanna.  An'  be  sure  you  always 
fetch  your  work  an'  stay  the  afternoon." 

"Well,  I  will.  But  it's  your  turn  to  come 
now.  Where's  Isaphene?" 

"  I  guess  she's  makin'  a  fire  'n  the  cook-stove 
to  get  supper  by." 

"Well,  tell  her  to  come  over  an*  stay  aH  night 
with  Julia  some  night." 

«Well—  I  wiU.» 

Mrs.  Bridges  went  into  the  kitchen  and  sat 
down,  rather  heavily,  in  a  chair.  Her  face  wore 
a  puzzled  expression. 

"  Isaphene,  did  you  hear  what  we  was  a-sayin' 
in  the  bedroom?" 

"  Yes,  most  of  it,  I  guess." 

"Well,  what  do  you  s'pose  was  the  reason  she 

57 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS'  I.ANE 

never  thought  o'  me  a-takin'  Mis'  Lane  in  ?  Says 
she'd  thought  o'  ev'rybody  else.'1 

"Why,  you  never  thought  o'  takin'  her  in 
yourself,  did  you?"  said  Isaphene,  turning  down 
the  damper  of  the  stove  with  a  clatter.  "  I  don't 
see  how  anybody  else  'u'd  think  of  it  when  you 
didn't  yourself." 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  it  was  offul  impadent 
in  her  to  say  that,  anyhow?" 

"  No,  I  don't.     She  told  the  truth." 

"  Why  ought  they  to  think  o'  ev'rybody  takin' 
her  exceptin'  me,  I'd  like  to  know." 

4 'Because  ev'rybody  else,  I  s'pose,  has  thought 
of  it  theirselves.  The  neighbors  have  all  been 
chippin'  in  to  help  her  for  years.  You  never 
done  nothin'  for  her,  did  you?  You  never  in 
vited  her  to  visit  here,  did  you  ?' ' 

"No,  I  never.  But  that  ain't  no  sayin'  I 
wouldn't  take  her  as  quick  's  the  rest  of  'em. 
They  ain't  none  of  'em  takin'  her  in  very  fast, 
be  they?" 

"No,  they  ain't,"  said  Isaphene,  facing  her 
mother  with  a  steady  look.  "They  ain't  a  one 
of  'em  but  's  got  their  hands  full— no  spare  room, 
an'  lots  o'  childern  or  their  folks  to  take  care  of." 

' '  Hunh  !' '  said  Mrs.  Bridges.  She  began  chop 
ping  cold  boiled  beef  for  hash. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  sleep  to-night  for  thinkin' 
about  it,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 

58 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  ou>  MIS'  I,ANE 

"  I  won't  neither,  maw.  I  wish  she  wasn't 
goin'  right  by  here." 

"So  do  I." 

After  a  long  silence  Mrs.  Bridges  said-- "I 
don't  suppose  your  paw'd  hear  to  us  a-takin'  her 
in." 

"I  guess  he'd  hear  to  't  if  we  would,"  said 
Isaphene,  dryly. 

"  Well,  we  can't  do't ;  that's  all  there  is  about 
it,"  announced  Mrs.  Bridges,  with  a  great  air  of 
having  made  up  her  mind.  Isaphene  did  not  re 
ply.  She  was  slicing  potatoes  to  fry,  and  she 
seemed  to  agree  silently  with  her  mother's  deci 
sion.  Presently,  however,  Mrs.  Bridges  said,  in 
a  less  determined  tone — "  There's  no  place  to  put 
her  in,  exceptin'  the  spare  room — an'  we  can't 
get  along  without  that,  noways." 

''No,"  said  Isaphene,  in  a  non-committal  tone. 

Mrs.  Bridges  stopped  chopping  and  looked 
thoughtfully  out  of  the  door. 

' '  There's  this  room  openin'  out  o'  the  kitchen, ' ' 
she  said,  slowly.  "It's  nice  an'  big  an'  sunny. 
It  'u'd  be  handy  'n  winter,  bein'  right  off  o'  the 
kitchen.  But  it  ain't  furnished  up." 

"No,"  said  Isaphene,  "it  ain't." 

"  An'  I  know  your  paw'd  never  furnish  it." 

Isaphene  laughed.  "No,  I  guess  not,"  she 
said. 

"Well,  there's  no  use  a-thinkin'  about  it,  Isa- 

59 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  OI,D  MIS' 


phene;  we  just  can't  take  her.  Better  get  them 
potatoes  on;  I  see  the  men-folks  comin'  up  to  the 
barn." 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast  Isaphene 
said  suddenly,  as  she  stood  washing  dishes  — 
"  Maw,  I  guess  you'd  better  take  the  organ  money 
an'  furnish  up  that  room." 

Mrs.  Bridges  turned  so  sharply  she  dropped 
the  turkey-wing  with  which  she  was  polishing 
the  stove. 

"You  don't  never  mean  it,"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  know  we'd  both  feel  better  to 
take  her  in  than  to  take  in  an  organ"  —  they  both 
laughed  rather  foolishly  at  the  poor  joke.  "  You 
can  furnish  the  room  real  comf  'table  with  what 
it  'u'd  take  to  buy  an  organ;  an'  we  can  get  the 
horse  an'  buggy,  too." 

"  Oh,  Isaphene,  I've  never  meant  but  what  you 
should  have  an  organ.  I  know  you'd  learn  fast. 
You'd  soon  get  so's  you  could  play  '  I/illy  Dale' 
an'  '  Hazel  Dell  ;  '  an'  you  might  get  so's  you 
could  play  *  General  Persifer  F.  Smith's  Grand 
March.'  No,  I  won't  never  spend  that  money 
for  nothin'  but  an  organ  —  so  you  can  just  shet 
up  about  it." 

"  I  want  a  horse  an'  buggy  worse,  maw,"  said 

Isaphene,    after   a   brief  but  fierce  struggle  with 

the  dearest  desire  of  her  heart.     '  '  We  can  get  a 

horse  that  I  can    ride,    too.      An'  we'll  get  a 

60 


THE  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OI<:D  MIS' 


phaeton,  so's  we  can  take  Mis'  Lane  to  church 
an'  around."  Then  she  added,  with  a  regular 
masterpiece  of  diplomacy  —  "We'll  show  the 
neighbors  that  when  we  do  take  people  in,  we 
take  'em  in  all  over  !" 

"Oh,    Isaphene,"   said   her   mother,    weakly. 
"wouldn't  it  just  astonish  'em  !" 


It  was  ten  o'clock  of  the  following  morning 
when  Isaphene  ran  in  and  announced  that  she 
heard  wheels  coming  up  the  lane.  Mrs.  Bridges 
paled  a  little  and  breathed  quickly  as  she  put  on 
her  bonnet  and  went  out  to  the  gate. 

A  red  spring-wagon  was  coming  slowly  toward 
her,  drawn  by  a  single,  bony  horse.  The  driver 
was  half  asleep  on  the  front  seat.  Behind,  in  a 
low  chair,  sat  old  Mrs.  Lane ;  she  was  stooping 
over,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  gray  head 
bowed. 

Mrs.  Bridges  held  up  her  hand,  and  the  driver 
pulled  in  the  unreluctant  horse. 

"  How  d'you  do,  Mis'  Lane  ?  I  want  that  you 
should  come  in  an'  visit  me  a  while." 

The  old  creature  lifted  her  trembling  head  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Bridges ;  then  she  saw  the  old 
house,  half  hidden  by  vines  and  flowers,  and  her 
dim  eyes  filled  with  bitter  tears. 

61 


THIS  TAKIN'  IN  OF  OLD  MIS' 


"We  ain't  got  time  to  stop,  ma'am,"  said 
the  driver,  politely.  "I'm  a  takiu'  her  to  the 
county,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  but  not  so  low 
that  the  old  woman  did  not  hear. 

'  '  You'll  have  to  make  time,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges, 
bluntly.  "You  get  down  an'  help  her  out. 
You  don't  have  to  wait.  When  I'm  ready  for 
her  to  go  to  the  county,  I'll  take  her  myself." 

Not  understanding  in  the  least,  but  realizing, 
as  he  said  afterwards,  that  she  "meant  business" 
and  wasn't  the  kind  to  be  fooled  with,  the  man 
obeyed  with  alacrity. 

"  Now,  you  lean  all  your  heft  on  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Bridges,  kindly.  She  put  her  arm  around 
the  old  woman  and  led  her  up  the  hollyhock  path, 
and  through  the  house  into  the  pleasant  kitchen. 

c  *  Isaphene,  you  pull  that  big  chair  over  here 
where  it's  cool.  Now,  Mis'  L,ane,  you  set  right 
down  an'  rest." 

Mrs.  I^ane  wiped  the  tears  from  her  face  with 
an  old  cotton  handkerchief.  She  tried  to  speak, 
but  the  sobs  had  to  be  swallowed  down  too  fast. 
At  last  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice  —  "  It's  awful 
good  in  you  —  to  let  me  see  the  old  place  —  once 
more.  The  I/)rd  bless  you  —  for  it.  But  I'm 
most  sorry  I  stopped  —  seems  now  as  if  I  —  just 
couldn't  go  on." 

"Well,  you  ain't  goin'  on,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges, 
while  Isaphene  went  to  the  door  and  stood  look- 
62 


TAKIN'  IN  OF  ou>  MIS' 

Ing  toward  the  hill  with  drowned  eyes.  ' '  This 
is  our  little  joke  —  Isaphene's  an'  mine.  This'll 
be  your  home  as  long  as  it's  our'n.  An'  you're 
goin'  to  have  this  nice  big  room  right  off  o'  the 
kitchen,  as  soon  's  we  can  furnish  it  up.  An' 
we're  goin'  to  get  a  horse  an'  buggy  —  a  low 
buggy,  so's  you  can  get  in  an'  out  easy  like  —  an' 
take  you  to  church  an'  all  around." 


That  night,  after  Mrs.  Bridges  had  put  Mrs. 
to  bed  and  said  good-night  to  her,  she  went 
out  on  the  front  porch  and  sat  down ;  but  pres 
ently,  remembering  that  she  had  not  put  a  candle 
in  the  room,  she  went  back,  opening  the  door 
noiselessly,  not  to  disturb  her.  Then  she  stood 
perfectly  still.  The  old  creature  had  got  out  of 
bed  and  was  kneeling  beside  Ait,  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  lyord  God,"  she  was  saying  aloud,  "  bless 
these  kind  people  —  bless  'em,  oh,  I^ord  God  ! 
Hear  a  poor,  old  mis'rable  soul's  prayer,  an'  bless 
'em  !  An'  if  they've  ever  done  a  sinful  thing, 
oh,  lyord  God,  forgive  'em  for  it,  because  they've 
kep'  me  out  o'  the  poor-house — " 
,  Mrs.  Bridges  closed  the  door,  and  stood  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  must  break. 


TAKIN'  IN  OP  OI,D  MIS* 

"What's  the  matter,  maw?"  said  Isaphene, 
coming  up  suddenly. 

"  Never  you  mind  what's  the  matter,"  said  her 
mother,  sharply,  to  conceal  her  emotion.  ' '  You 
get  to  bed,  an'  don't  bother  your  head  about 
what's  the  matter  of  me." 

Then  she  went  down  the  hall  and  entered  her 
own  room ;  and  Isaphene  heard  the  key  turned 
in  the  lock. 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.  SYBERT 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.  SYEERT 

"Why,  mother,  where  are  you  a-goin',  all 
dressed  up  so  ?' ' 

Mr.  Sybert  stood  in  the  bedroom  door  and 
stared  at  his  wife's  ample  back.  There  was  a 
look  of  surprise  in  his  blue  eyes.  Mrs.  Sybert 
stooped  before  the  bureau,  and  opened  the  middle 
drawer,  taking  hold  of  both  handles  and  watch 
ing  it  carefully  as  she  drew  it  toward  her.  Some 
times  it  came  out  crookedly;  and  every  one  knows 
that  a  drawer  that  opens  crookedly,  will,  in  time, 
strain  and  rub  the  best  bureau  ever  made.  From 
a  red  pasteboard  box  that  had  the  picture  of  a 
pretty  actress  on  the  cover,  Mrs.  Sybert  took  a 
linen  handkerchief  that  had  been  ironed  until  it 
shone  like  satin.  After  smoothing  an  imaginary 
wrinkle  out  of  it,  she  put  it  into  her  pocket,  set 
her  bonnet  a  little  further  over  her  forehead, 
pushing  a  stray  lock  sternly  where  it  belonged, 
adjusted  her  bonnet-strings,  which  were  so  wide 
and  so  stiff  that  they  pressed  her  ears  away  from 
her  head,  giving  her  a  bristling  appearance,  and 
buttoned  her  gloves  with  a  hair-pin ;  then,  hay 
ing  gained  time  and  decided  upon  a  reply,  she 
said,  cheerfully,  "What's  that,  father?" 

67 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.   SYBERT 

"Well,  it  took  you  a  right  smart  spell  to 
answer,  didn't  it?  I  say,  where  are  you a-goin', 
all  dressed  up  so?" 

Mrs.  Sybert  took  her  black  silk  bag  with  round 
spots  brocaded  upon  it,  and  put  its  ribbons 
leisurely  over  her  arm.  "I'm  a-goin'  to  see 
Mis'  Nesley,"  she  said. 

Her  husband's  face  reddened.  "  What's  that 
you  say,  mother?  You're  a-goin'  to  do  what? 
I  reckon  I'm  a-goin'  a  little  deef." 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  see  Mis'  Nesley."  Mrs.  Sybert 
spoke  calmly.  No  one  would  have  suspected 
that  she  was  reproaching  herself  for  not  getting 
out  of  the  house  ten  minutes  sooner.  ' '  He 
never 'd  'a'  heard  a  thing  about  it,"  she  was 
thinking  ;  but  she  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 
Her  eyelids  did  not  quiver. 

The  red  in  Mr.  Sybert 's  face  deepened.  He 
stood  in  the  door,  so  she  could  not  pass.  Indeed, 
she  did  not  try.  Mrs.  Sybert  had  not  studied 
signs  for  nothing  during  the  thirty  years  she  had 
been  a  wife.  *  *  I  reckon  you  're  a-foolin ' ,  mother, ' ' 
he  said.  "Just  up  to  some  o'  your  devilment  !" 

"No,  I  ain't  up  to  no  devilment,  father,"  she 
said,  still  calmly.  ' '  You'd  best  let  me  by,  now, 
so's  I  can  go  ;  it's  half  after  two. " 

"D'you  mean  to  say  that  you're  a-ne'rnest? 
A-talkin'  about  goin'  to  see  that  hussy  of  a  Mis' 
Lesley?" 


THB  MANEUVERING   OF   MRS. 


"  Yes,  I'm  a-ne'rnest,  "  said  Mrs.  Sybert,  firmly. 
"She  ain't  a  hussy,  as  I  know  of.  What  you 
got  agin  'er,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"/  ain't  got  anything  agin  'er.  Now,  what's 
the  sense  o'  you're  a-pretendin'  you  don't  know 
the  talk  about  'er,  mother?"  Mr.  Sybert's  tone 
had  changed  slightly.  He  did  not  like  the  poise 
of  his  wife's  body;  it  bespoke  determination  — 
a  fight  to  the  finish  if  necessary.  "You  know 
she's  be'n  the  town  talk  fer  five  years.  Your 
own  tawngue  hez  run  on  about  'er  like's  if  't  was 
split  in  the  middle  an'  loose  at  both  en's.  There 
wa'n't  a  woman  in  town  that  spoke  to  'er"  - 

"There  was  men,  though,  that  did,"  said  Mrs. 
Sybert,  calmly.  "I  rec'lect  bein'  in  at  Mis' 
Carney's  one  day,  an'  seem'  you  meet  'er  opposite 
an'  take  off  your  hat  to  'er  —  bowin'  an'  scrapin' 
right  scrumptious  like." 

Mr.  Sybert  changed  his  position  uneasily,  and 
cleared  his  throat.  "Well,  that's  diff'rent,"  he 
said.  "I  ust  to  know  'er  before  'er  husband 
died"  - 

"  Well,  I  ust  to  know  'er,  then,  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Sybert,  quietly. 

"Well,  you  hed  to  stop  speakin'  to  'er  after 
she  got  to  actin'  up  so,  but  it  wa'n't  so  easy  fer 
me  to  stop  biddin'  'er  the  time  o'  day." 

"Why  not?"   said  Mrs.  Sybert,  stolidly. 

"  Why  not  !"  repeated  her  husband,  loudly  ;  he 

69 


THK  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS. 

was  losing  his  temper.  "What's  the  sense  o' 
your  actin'  the  fool  so,  mother  ?  Why,  if  I'd  'a' 
set  myself  up  as  bein'  too  virtjus  to  speak  to  'er 
ev'ry  man  in  town  'u'd  'a'  be'n  blagg'ardin'  me 
about  bein'  so  mighty  good  !" 

"Why  s/2  VdfoV  you  be  so  mighty  good,  father  ? 
You  expect  me  to  be,  I  notice." 

Mr.  Sybert  choked  two  or  three  times.  His 
face  was  growing  purplish. 

"  Oh,  damn  /"  he  burst  out.  Then  he  looked 
frightened.  "Now,  see  here,  mother!  You're 
aggravatin'  me  awful.  You  know  as  well  as  me 
that  men  ain't  expected  to  be  as  good  all  their 
lives  as  women  " 

"  Why  ain't  they  expected  to?"  Mrs.  Sybert's 
tone  and  look  were  stern. 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  ain't,  mother,  but  I 
know  they  ain't  expected  to  —  an'  I  know  they 
ain't  as  good,  'ither."  This  last  was  a  fine  bit 
of  diplomacy.  But  it  was  wasted. 

"  They  ain't  as  good,  aigh?  Well,  the  reason 
they  ain't  as  good  is  just  because  they  ain't  ex 
pected  to  be  !  That's  just  the  reason.  You  can't 
get  around  that,  can  you,  father?" 

Evidently  he  could  not. 

"An'  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Sybert,  "  that  she's 
up  an'  married  Mr.  Nesley  an'  wants  to  live  a 
right  life,  I'm  a-goin'  to  see  her." 

"  How  d'you  know  she  wants  to  live  a  right 
life?"  ?0 


THE  MANEUVERING   OF  MRS.    SYBERT 

"I  don't  know  it,  father.  I  just  reckon  she 
does.  When  you  wanted  I  sh'u'd  marry  you, 
my  father  shook  his  head,  an'  says — *  lyucindy,  I 
do'  know  what  to  say.  John's  be'n  a  mighty  fast 
young  fello'  to  give  a  good  girl  to  fer  the  askin'/ 
but  I  says — 'Well,  father,  I  reckon  he  wants  to 
start  in  an'  live  a  right  life  now.'  An'  so  I  reckon 
that  about  Mis'  Nesley." 

"  God  A' mighty,  mother  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sy- 
bert,  violently.  ' '  That's  diff 'rent.  Them  things 
ain't  counted  the  same  in  men.  Most  all  men 
nowadays  sow  their  wild  oats  an'  then  settle  down, 
an'  ain't  none  the  worse  for  it.  It  just  helps  'em 
to  appreciate  good  women,  an'  to  make  good 
husbands." 

"Well,  I  reckon  Mis'  Nesley  knows  how  to  ap 
preciate  a  good  man  by  this  time,"  said  Mrs. 
Sybert,  with  unintentional  irony.  ' '  I  reckon 
she's  got  all  her  wild  oats  sowed,  an'  is  ready  to 
settle  down  an'  make  a  good  wife.  So  I'm  goin' 
to  see  'er.  Let  me  by,  father.  I've  fooled  a  ha'f 
an  hour  away  now,  when  I'd  ort  to  'a'  be'n  on 
the  road  there." 

"Now,  see  here,  mother.  You  ain't  goin'  a 
step.  The  whole  town  's  excited  over  a  nice  man 
like  Mr.  Nesley  a-throwin'  hisself  away  on  a  no- 
account  woman  like  her,  an'  you  sha'n't  be  seen 
a-goin'  there  an'  upholdin'  her." 

Mrs.  Sybert  looked  long  and  steadily  into  her 

7J 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.    SYBERT 

husband's  eyes.  It  was  her  policy  to  fight  until 
she -began  to  lose  ground,  and  then  to  quietly  turn 
her  forces  to  maneuvering.  ' '  I  reckon, ' '  she  was 
now  reflecting;  "it's  about  time  to  begin  ma- 
neuv'rin'." 

"Well,  father,"  she  said,  mildly;  "I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  an'  see  Mis'  Nesley  an'  encour 
age  her  same's  I  w'u'd  any  man  that  wanted  to 
live  better.  An'  I'm  a-goinV 

"You  ain't  a-goin'!"  thundered  Mr.  Sybert. 
"  I  forbid  you  to  budge  a  step  !  You  sha'n't  dis 
grace  yourself,  Mrs.  Sybert,  if  you  do  want  to, 
while  you're  my  wife  !" 

Mrs.  Sybert  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and  laid 
her  bag  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "All  right, 
father,"  she  said,  "  I  won't  go  till  you  tell  me  I 
can.  I  always  hev  tried  to  do  just  as  you  wanted 
Ish'u'd." 

She  went  into  another  room  to  take  off  her  best 
dress.  Mr.  Sybert  stood  staring  after  her,  speech 
less.  He  had  the  dazed  look  of  a  cat  that  falls 
from  a  great  height  and  alights,  uninjured,  upon 
its  feet.  The  maneuvering  had  commenced. 

Mr.  Sybert  spent  the  afternoon  at  the  postoffice 
grocery  store.  It  was  a  pleasant  place  to  sit. 
There  was  always  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  rusty  box- 
stove  in  the  back  room,  and  there  were  barrels  and 
odds  and  ends  of  chairs  scattered  around,  whereon 
men  who  had  an  hour  to  squander  might  sit  and 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.    SYBERT 

talk  over  the  latest  scandal.  Men,  as  it  is  well 
known,  are  above  the  petty  gossip  as  to  servants 
and  best  gowns  which  women  enjoy  ;  but,  with 
out  scruple  or  conscience,  they  will  talk  away  a 
woman's  character,  even  when  they  see  her  strug 
gling  to  live  down  a  misfortune  or  sin  and  begin  a 
new  life.  There  are  many  characters  talked  away 
in  the  back  rooms  of  grocery  stores. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  he  went  home.  As  he 
went  along  the  narrow  plank  walk,  he  thought  of 
the  good  supper  that  would  be  awaiting  him,  and 
his  heart  softened  to  "  mother." 

* '  I  reckon  I  was  too  set, ' '  he  reflected.  * '  There 
ain't  many  women  as  good  an'  faithful  as  mother. 
I  don't  see  what  got  it  into  her  head  to  go  to  see 
that  Mis'  Nesley — an'  to  talk  up  so  to  me.  She 
never  done  that  afore." 

The  door  was  locked.  In  surprise  he  fumbled 
about  in  the  dark  for  the  seventh  flower-pot  in 
the  third  row,  where  mother  always  hid  the  key. 
Yes,  it  was  there.  But  his  knees  shook  a  little 
as  he  entered  the  house.  He  could  not  remember 
that  he  had  ever  found  her  absent  at  supper  time 
since  the  children  were  married.  Some  of  the 
neighbors  must  be  sick.  In  that  case  she  would 
have  left  a  note  ;  and  he  lighted  the  kitchen  can 
dle,  and  searched  for  it.  It  was  pinned  to  a  cush 
ion  on  the  bureau  in  the  bedroom.  The  house 
was  cold,  but  he  did  not  wait  to  kindle  a  fire. 

73 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS. 


He  sat  down  by  the  bureau,  and  with  fingers 
somewhat  clumsier  than  usual,  adjusted  his  spec 
tacles  over  his  high,  thin  nose.  Then,  leaning 
close  to  the  candle,  he  read  the  letter,  the  com 
position  of  which  must  have  given  "mother" 
some  anxious  hours.  It  was  written  with  pain 
ful  precision. 

"  DEAR  FATHER  :  You  will  find  the  coald  meat  in 
the  safe  out  on  the  back  porch  in  the  stun  crock  covered 
up  with  a  pie  pan.  The  apple  butter  is  in  the  big  peory 
jar  down  in  the  seller  with  a  plate  and  napkeen  tied  over 
it.  Put  them  back  on  when  you  get  some  out  so  the  ants 
wont  get  into.  There's  a  punkin  pie  on  the  bottom  shelf 
of  the  pantree  to  the  right  side  of  the  door  as  you  go  in, 
and  some  coffy  in  the  mill  all  ground.  I'm  offul  sorry  I 
hadenttime  to  fix  supper.  I  hev  gone  to  Johns  and  Ma 
rias  to  stay  tell  you  come  after  me  and  I  don't  want  that 
you  shud  come  tell  you  change  your  mind  bout  Mis  Nes- 
ley,  if  it  takes  till  dumesday  to  change  it.  I  aint  never 
gone  against  you  in  anythin  before,  but  I  haf  to  this-  time. 
Im  goin  to  stay  at  Johns  and  Marias  tell  you  come  of 
yourself  and  get  me.  You  dont  haf  to  say  nothin  before 
John  and  Maria  except  just  well  mother  Ive  come  after 
you.  Then  I'll  know  you  meen  I  can  go  and  see  Mis 
Nesley. 

Well  father  I  reckon  youll  be  surprised  but  Iv-e  been 
thinkin  bout  that  poor  woman  and  us  not  givin  her  a 
chanse  after  what  Christ  said  bout  castin  the  first  stun. 
He  didnt  make  no  difrence  between  metis  and  womens 
sins  and  I  dont  perpose  to.  There  aint  a  woman  alive 
thats  worse  than  haff  the  men  are  when  they  conclud  to 
settle  down  and  live  right  and  if  you  give  men  a  chanse 
youve  got  to  give  women  a  chanse  too.  They  both  got 

74 


THE  MANEUVERING   OF  MRS.    SYBERT 

soles  an  I  reckon  thats  what  Gods  thinkin  bout.  I  mar 
ried  you  and  give  you  a  chanse  and  I  reckon  youd  best 
do  as  much  fer  Mis  Nesley. 

If  you  dont  come  fer  me  111  live  at  Johns  and  Marias 
and  I  want  that  you  shud  keep  all  the  things  but  the  hit 
and  miss  rag  carpet.  I  dont  think  I  cud  get  along  with 
out  that.  Marias  are  all  wove  in  stripes  and  look  so 
com  on.  And  my  cloze  and  one  fether  bed  and  pillow. 
Well  thats  all.  MOTHER." 

"  I  laid  out  your  clean  undercloze  on  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  your  sox  with  them." 

One  fine  afternoon  the  following  week  Mrs. 
Sybert,  looking  through  the  geraniums  in  Maria's 
kitchen  window,  saw  her  husband  drive  up  to  the 
gate.  She  did  not  look  surprised. 

"Here's  father  come  to  get  me,  Maria,"  she 
said,  lifting  her  voice. 

Maria  came  out  of  the  pantry  with  flour  on  her 
hands  and  arms  and  stood  waiting.  Mr.  Sybert 
came  in,  stamping,  and  holding  his  head  high  and 
stiffly.  He  had  a  lofty  and  condescending  air. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said,  "I've  come  after 
you." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Sybert,  "set  down  till  I 
get  on  my  things.  I've  had  a  right  nice  vis't, 
but  I'm  glad  to  get  home.  Did  you  find  the  apple 
butter?" 

On  the  road  home  Mrs.  Sybert  talked  cheerfully 
about  John  and  Maria  and  their  domestic  affairs. 
Mr.  Sybert  listened  silently.  He  held  his  body 

75 


THE  MANEUVERING  OF  MRS.   SYBERT 

erect,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 
He  did  not  speak  until  they  approached  Mr.  Nes- 
ley's  gate.  Then  he  said,  with  firmness  and  dig 
nity  : 

"  Mother,  I've  b'en  thinkin'  that  you'd  best  go 
an'  see  Mis'  Nesley,  after  all.  I  changed  my  mind 
down  at  the  postoffice  groc'ry  store  that  same 
afternoon  an'  went  home,  meanin'  to  tell  you  I 
wanted  you  sh'u'd  go  an'  see  'er — but  you  was 
gone  to  John's  an'  Maria's.  I  reckon  you'd  best 
stop  right  now  an'  have  it  over." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Sybert. 

She  descended  meekly  over  the  front  wheel. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  air  of  triumph  about 
her  until  she  got  inside  the  gate.  Then  a  smile 
went  slowly  across  her  face.  But  her  husband 
did  not  see  it.  He  was  looking  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  at  the  house  across  the  road.  Mrs. 
Deacon,  the  druggist's  wife,  and  all  her  children 
had  their  faces  flattened  against  the  window. 

Mr.  Sybert' s  determination  kept  his  head  high, 
but  not  his  spirit. 

"  God  A'mighty  !"  he  groaned.  "  The  whole 
town  '11  know  it  to-morrow.  I'd  rather  die  than 
face  that  groc'ry  store — after  the  way  I've  went 
on  about  people  upholdin'  of  her  1" 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

IN  THREE  PARTS 
PARTI 

Kmarine  went  along  the  narrow  hall  and  passed 
through  the  open  door.  There  was  something 
in  her  carriage  that  suggested  stubbornness.  Her 
small  body  had  a  natural  backward  sway,  and 
the  decision  with  which  she  set  her  heels  upon 
the  floor  had  long  ago  caused  the  readers  of 
character  in  the  village  to  aver  that  ' '  Kmarine 
Endey  was  contrairier  than  any  mule." 

She  wore  a  brown  dress,  a  gray  shawl  folded 
primly  around  her  shoulders,  and  a  hat  that  tried 
in  vain  to  make  her  small  face  plain.  There 
was  a  frill  of  white,  cheap  lace  at  her  slender 
throat,  fastened  in  front  with  a  cherry  ribbon. 
Heavy  gold  earrings  with  long,  shining  pendants 
reached  almost  to  her  shoulders.  They  quivered 
and  glittered  with  every  movement. 

Emarine  was  pretty,  in  spite  of  many  freckles 
and  the  tightness  with  which  she  brushed  her 
hair  from  her  fece  and  coiled  it  in  a  sleek  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  "  Now,  be  sure  you  get  it 
just  so  slick,  Emarine,"  her  mother  would  say, 

79 


A  POINT 


watching  her  steadily  while  she  combed  and 
brushed  and  twisted  her  long  tresses. 

As  Emarine  reached  the  door  her  mother  fol 
lowed  her  down  the  hall  from  the  kitchen.  The 
house  was  old,  and  two  or  three  loose  pieces  in 
the  flooring  creaked  as  she  stepped  heavily  upon 
them. 

"Oh,  say,  Kmarine  I" 

"Well?" 

"  You  get  an*  bring  home  a  dollar's  worth  o' 
granylated  sugar,  will  you?" 

"'Well." 

"An'  a  box  o'  ball  bluin'.  Mercy,  child! 
Your  dress-skirt  sags  awful  in  the  back.  Why 
don't  you  run  a  tuck  in  it  ?" 

Kmarine  turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder 
with  a  birdlike  movement,  and  bent  backward, 
trying  to  see  the  offensive  sag. 

"  Can't  you  pin  it  up,  maw?" 

"Yes,  I  guess.  Have  you  got  a  pin?  Why, 
Emarine  Endey  I  If  ever  I  see  in  all  my  born 
days  !  What  are  you  a-doin'  with  a  red  ribbon 
on  you  —  an'  your  Uncle  Herndon  not  cold  in  his 
grave  yet!  A  fine  spectickle  you'd  make  o' 
yourself,  a-goin'  the  length  an'  the  breadth  o'  the 
town  with  that  thing  a-flarin'  on  you.  You'll 
disgrace  this  whole  fambly  yet  !  I  have  to  keep 
watch  o'  you  like  a  two-year-old  baby.  Now, 
you  get  an'  take  it  right  off  o'  you  ;  an'  don't 
80 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

you  let  me  ketch  you  a-puttin'  it  on  again  till  a 
respectful  time  after  he's  be'n  dead.  I  never 
hear  tell  o'  such  a  thing." 

"I  don't  see  what  a  red  ribbon's  got  to  do 
with  Uncle  Herndon's  bein'  dead,"  said  Kmarine. 

"Oh,  you  don't,  aigh  ?  Well,  7  see.  You 
act  as  if  you  didn't  have  no  feelin'." 

"Well,  goin'  without  a  red  ribbon  won't  make 
me  feel  any  worse,  will  it,  maw?" 

"No,  it  won't.  Kmarine,  what  does  get  into 
you  to  act  so  tantalizin'  ?  I  guess  it  '11  look  a 
little  better.  I  guess  the  neighbors  won't  talk 
quite  so  much.  You  can  see  fer  yourself  how 
they  talk  about  Mis'  Henspeter  because  she  wore 
a  rose  to  church  before  her  husband  had  be'n 
dead  a  year.  All  she  had  to  say  fer  herself  was 
that  she  liked  flowers,  an'  didn't  sense  it  'u'd  be 
any  disrespect  to  her  husband  to  wear  it — seein's 
he'd  always  liked  'em,  too.  They  all  showed 
her  'n  a  hurry  what  they  thought  about  it.  She's 
got  narrow  borders  on  all  her  han'kachers,  too, 
a' ready." 

11  Why  don't  you  stay  away  from  such  people  ?" 
said  Kmarine.  "Old  gossips!  You  know  I 
don't  care  what  the  neighbors  say  —  or  think, 
either." 

"Well,  /  do.  The  land  knows  they  talk  a 
plenty  even  without  givin'  'em  anything  to  talk 
about.  You  get  an'  take  that  red  ribbon  off  o' 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"Oh,  I'll  take  it  off  if  you  want  I  sh'u'd." 
She  unfastened  it  deliberately  and  laid  it  on  a 
little  table.  She  had  an  exasperating  air  of  be 
ing  unconvinced  and  of  complying  merely  for  the 
sake  of  peace. 

She  gathered  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders 
and  crossed  the  porch. 

"Emarine!" 

"Well?" 

"Who's  that  a-comin'  over  the  hill  path?  I 
can't  make  out  the  dress.  It  looks  some  like 
Mis'  Grandy,  don't  it?" 

Bmarine  turned  her  head.  Her  eyelids  quiv 
ered  closer  together  in  an  effort  to  concentrate 
her  vision  on  the  approaching  guest. 

"Well,  I  never  !"  exclaimed  her  mother,  in 
a  subdued  but  irascible  tone.  * '  There  you  go — 
a-lookin'  right  square  at  her,  when  I  didn't  want 
that  she  sh'u'd  know  we  saw  her  !  It  does  seem 
to  me  sometimes,  Emarine,  that  you  ain't  got 
good  sense." 

"  I'd  just  as  soon  she  knew  we  saw  her,"  said 
Emarine,  unmoved.  "It's  Miss  Presly,  maw." 

"  Oh,  land  o'  goodness  !  That  old  sticktight? 
She'll  stay  all  day  if  she  stays  a  minute.  Set 
an'  set !  An'  there  I've  just  got  the  washin'  all 
out  on  the  line,  an'  she'll  tell  the  whole  town  we 
wear  underdo' s  made  out  o*  unbleached  muslin  ! 


82 


A  POINT  OP  KNTJCKLIKO-DOWH 

Are  you  sure  it's  her?  It  don't  look  overly  like 
her  shawl." 

"Yes,  it's  her." 

"  Well,  go  on  an'  stop  an'  talk  to  her,  so  's  to 
give  me  a  chance  to  red  up  some.  Don't  ferget 
the  ball  bluin',  Emarine." 

Kmarine  went  down  the  path  and  met  the 
visitor  just  between  the  two  tall  lilac  trees,  whose 
buds  were  beginning  to  swell. 

"  Good  mornin',  Miss  Presly." 

"Why,  good  mornin',  Emarine.  Z'  your 
maw  to  home?" 

"Yes  'm." 

"I  thought  I'd  run  down  an1  set  a  spell  with 
her,  an'  pass  the  news. ' ' 

Emarine  smiled  faintly  and  was  silent. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  up  town  pretty  early  fer 
wash-day?" 

"Yes  'm." 

"  I  see  you  hed  a  beau  home  from  church  las' 
night." 

Emarine' s  face  flushed;  even  her  ears  grew 
rosy. 

"Well,  I  guess  he's  a  reel  nice  young  man, 
anyways,  Emarine.  You  needn't  to  blush  so. 
Mis'  Grandy  was  a-sayin'  she  thought  you'd  done 
offul  well  to  git  him.  He  owns  the  house  an'  lot 
they  live  in,  an'  he's  got  five  hunderd  dollars  in 
the  bank.  I  reckon  he'll  have  to  live  with  the 

83 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

el*  lady,  though,  when  he  gits  married.  They 
do  say  she's  turrable  hard  to  suit." 

Emarine  lifted  her  chin.  The  gold  pendants 
glittered  like  diamonds. 

"  It  don't  make  any  difference  to  me  whuther 
she's  hard  to  suit  or  easy,"  she  said.  "  I'll  have 
to  be  goin'  on  now.  Just  knock  at  the  front  door, 
Miss  Presly." 

11  Oh,  I  can  go  right  around  to  the  back,  just 
as  well,  an'  save  your  maw  the  trouble  o'  comin' 
to  the  door.  If  she's  got  her  washin'  out,  I 
can  stoop  right  under  the  clo's  line." 

"Well,  we  like  to  have  our  comp'ny  come  to 
the  front  door,"  said  Bmarine,  dryly. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  early  spring. 
The  alders  and  the  maples  along  the  hill  were 
wrapped  in  reddish  mist.  The  saps  were  mount 
ing  through  delicate  veins.  Presently  the  mist 
would  quicken  to  a  pale  green  as  the  young 
leaves  unfolded,  but  as  yet  everything  seemed  to 
be  waiting.  The  brown  earth  had  a  fresh,  woody 
smell  that  caused  the  heart  to  thrill  with  a  vague 
sense  of  ecstasy  —  of  some  delight  deep  hidden 
and  inexplicable.  Pale  lavender  ' '  spring  beau 
ties  "  stood  shyly  in  groups  or  alone,  in  sheltered 
places  along  the  path.  There  was  even,  here  and 
there,  a  trillium — or  white  lily,  as  the  children 
called  it — shivering  on  its  slender  stem.  There 
were  old  stumps,  too,  hollowed  out  by  long-spent 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

flames  into  rustic  urns,  now  heaped  to  their  rag 
ged  rims  with  velvet  moss.  On  a  fence  near  a 
meadow-lark  was  pouring  out  its  few,  but  full  and 
beautiful,  notes  of  passion  and  desire.  Emarine 
paused  to  listen.  Her  heart  vibrated  with  ex 
quisite  pain,  to  the  ravishment  of  regret  in  those 
liquid  tones. 

"Sounds  as  if  he  was  sayin' — 'Sweet — oh — 
Sweet — my  heart  is  breaking!'  "  she  said;  and  then 
with  a  kind  of  shame  of  the  sentiment  in  such  a 
fancy,  she  went  on  briskly  over  the  hill.  Her 
heels  clicked  sharply  on  the  hard  road. 

Before  she  reached  the  long  wooden  stairs  which 
led  from  the  high  plateau  down  to  the  one  street 
of  Oregon  City,  Kmarine  passed  through  a  beauti 
ful  grove  of  firs  and  cedars.  Already  the  firs  were 
taking  on  their  little  plushy  tufts  of  pale  green, 
and  exuding  a  spicy  fragrance.  Occasionally  a 
last  year's  cone  drew  itself  loose  and  sunk  noise 
lessly  into  a  bed  of  its  own  brown  needles.  A 
little  way  from  the  path  a  woodpecker  clung  to  a 
tree,  hammering  into  the  tough  bark  with  its  long 
beak.  As  Emarine  approached,  it  flew  heavily 
away,  the  undersides  of  its  wings  flashing  a  scar 
let  streak  along  the  air. 

As  her  eyes  ceased  following  its  flight,  she  be 
came  aware  that  some  one  was  standing  in  the 
path,  waiting.  A  deep,  self-conscious  blush  swept 
over  her  face  and  throat.  "Emarine  never  does 

85 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

anything  up  by  halves,"  her  mother  was  wont  to 
declare.  "  When  she  blushes,  she  blushes  /" 

She  stepped  slowly  toward  him  with  a  sudden 
stiff  awkwardness. 

"  Oh — you,  is  it,  Mr.  Farmer?"  she  said,  with. 
an  admirable  attempt — but  an  attempt  only — at 
indifference. 

"Yes,  it's  me,"  said  the  young  fellow,  with  an 
embarrassed  laugh.  With  a  clumsy  shuffle  he 
took  step  with  her.  Both  faces  were  naming. 
Emarine  could  not  lift  her  eyes  from  their  con 
templation  of  the  dead  leaves  in  her  path — yet 
she  passed  a  whole  company  of  ' '  spring  beauties' ' 
playing  hide-and-seek  around  a  stump,  without 
seeing  them.  Her  pulses  seemed  full  of  little 
hammers,  beating  away  mercilessly.  Her  fingers 
fumbled  nervously  with  the  fringes  on  her  shawl. 

"  Don't  choo  want  I  sh'u'd  pack  yourumberell 
fer  yuh?"  asked  the  young  man,  solemnly. 

"Why — yes,  if  you  want." 

It  was  a  faded  thing  she  held  toward  him,  done 
up  rather  baggily,  too  ;  but  he  received  it  as  rev 
erently  as  if  it  had  been  a  twenty-dollar  silk  one 
with  a  gold  handle. 

"  Does  your  mother  know  I  kep'  yuh  comp'ny 
home  from  church  last  night  ?' ' 

"Unh-hunh." 

"What  'id  she  say?" 

"She  didn't  say  much.'* 

86 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Oh,  not  much."  Emarine  was  rapidly  recov 
ering  her  self-possession.  "  I  went  right  in  an' 
up  an'  told  her." 

11  Well,  why  can't  choo  tell  me  what  she  said? 
Emarine,  yuh  can  be  the  contrairiest  girl  when 
yuh  want." 

"  Can  I  ?"  She  flashed  a  coquettish  glance  at 
him.  She  was  quite  at  her  ease  by  this  time,  al 
though  the  color  was  still  burning  deep  in  her 
cheeks.  "  I  sh'u'dn't  think  you'd  waste  so  much 
time  on  contrairy  people,  Mr.  Farmer." 

"  Oh,  Emarine,  go  on  an'  tell  me  !" 

11  Well  "—Emarine  laughed  mirthfully— "  she 
put  the  backs  of  her  hands  on  her  hips — this  way  !' ' 
She  faced  him  suddenly,  setting  her  arms  akimbo, 
the  shawl's  fringes  quivering  over  her  elbows  ; 
her  eyes  fairly  danced  into  his.  ' '  An'  she  looked 
at  me  along  time  ;  then  she  says — '  Hunh  !  You 
— leetle — heifer  !  You  think  you '  re  some  pun '  kins, 
don't  you  ?  A-havin'  a  beau  home  from  meetin' . ' ' 

Both  laughed  hilariously. 

11  Well,  what  else  'id  she  say?" 

"  I  don't  believe  you  want  to  know.  Do  you 
—sure?" 

"  I  cross  my  heart." 

"Well — she  said  it  c'u'dn't  happen  more'n 
ev'ry  once  'n  so  often." 

"  Pshaw!" 

87 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"She  did." 

The  young  man  paused  abruptly.  A  narrow, 
unfrequented  path  led  through  deeper  woods  to 
the  right. 

"Emarine,  let's  take  this  catecornered  cut 
through  here." 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it's  longer — an'  it's  washday, 
you  know,"  said  Emarine,  with  feeble  resistance. 

"  We'll  walk  right  fast.  Come  on.  George  ! 
But  it's  nice  and  sweet  in  here,  though  !" 

They  entered  the  path.  It  was  narrow  and  the 
great  trees  bent  over  and  touched  above  them. 

There  was  a  kind  of  soft  lavender  twilight  fall 
ing  upon  them.  It  was  very  still,  save  for  the 
fluttering  of  invisible  wings  and  the  occasional 
shrill  scream  of  a  blue-jay. 

"  It  is  sweet  in  here,"  said  Emarine. 

The  young  man  turned  quickly,  and  with  a 
deep,  asking  look  into  her  lifted  eyes,  put  his 
arms  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  "Ema 
rine,"  he  said,  with  passionate  tenderness.  And 
then  he  was  silent,  and  just  stood  holding  her 
crushed  against  him,  and  looking  down  on  her 
with  his  very  soul  in  his  eyes.  Oh,  but  a  man 
who  refrains  from  much  speech  in  such  an  hour 
has  wisdom  straight  from  the  gods  themselves  ! 

After  a  long  silence  Emarine  lifted  her  head  and 
smiled  trustfully  into  his  eyes.      "It's  washday/1 
she  said,  with  a  flash  of  humor. 
88 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKtlNG-DOWN 

"So  it  is,"  he  answered  her,  heartily.  "An' 
I  promised  yuh  we'd  hurry  up — an'  I  alwus  keep 
my  promises.  But  first — Emarine — " 

"Well?" 

"Yuh  must  say  somethin'  first." 

"  Say  what,  Mr.  Farmer  ?" 

"'Afr.  Farmer!'"  His  tone  and  his  look 
were  reproachful.  "Can't  choo  say  Orville?" 

"Oh,  I  can — if  you  want  I  sh'u'd." 

"Well,  I  do  want  choo  sh'u'd,  Kmarine. 
Now,  yuh  know  what  else  it  is  I  want  choo 
sh'u'd  say  before  we  go  on." 

"Why,  no,  I  don't — hunh-unh."  She  shook 
her  head,  coquettishly. 

"Emarine" — the  young  fellow's  face  took  on 
a  sudden  seriousness — "  I  want  choo  to  say  yuh'll 
marry  me." 

"Oh,  my,  no!"  cried  Kmarine.  She  turned 
her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  bird,  and  looked  at 
him  with  lifted  brows  and  surprised  eyes.  One 
would  have  imagined  that  such  a  thought  had 
never  entered  that  pretty  head  before. 

"What,  Emarine!  Yuh  won't?"  There  was 
consternation  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  my,  no!"  Both  glance  and  movement 
were  full  of  coquettishness.  The  very  fringes  of 
the  demure  gray  shawl  seemed  to  have  taken  on 
new  life  and  vivacity. 

Orville  Palmer's  face  turned  pale  and  stern. 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

He  drew  a  long  breath  silently,  not  once  remov 
ing  that  searching  look  from  her  face. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  calmly,  "I  want  to 
know  what  choo  mean  by  up  an'  lettin'  me  kiss 
yuh — if  yuh  don't  mean  to  marry  me." 

This  was  an  instant  quietus  to  the  girl's  co 
quetry.  She  gave  him  a  startled  glance.  A 
splash  of  scarlet  came  into  each  cheek.  For  a 
moment  there  was  utter  silence.  Then  she  made 
a  soft  feint  of  withdrawing  from  his  arms.  To 
her  evident  amazement,  he  made  no  attempt  to 
detain  her.  This  placed  her  in  an  awkward  di 
lemma,  and  she  stood  irresolutely,  with  her  eyes 
cast  down. 

Young  Palmer's  arms  fell  at  his  sides  with  a 
movement  of  despair.  Sometimes  they  were 
ungainly  arms,  but  now  absence  of  self-con 
sciousness  lent  them  a  manly  grace. 

"Well,  Bmarine,"  he  said,  kindly,  "I'll  go 
back  the  way  I  come.  Goodby." 

With  a  quick,  spontaneous  burst  of  passion  — 
against  which  she  had  been  struggling,  and 
which  was  girlish  and  innocent  enough  to  carry 
a  man's  soul  with  it  into  heaven  —  Kmarine  cast 
herself  upon  his  breast  and  flung  her  shawl-en 
tangled  arms  about  his  shoulders.  Her  eyes 
were  earnest  and  pleading,  and  there  were  tears 
of  repentance  in  them.  With  a  modesty  that 


90 


-      A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

was   enchanting  she  set  her  warm,  sweet  lips 
tremblingly  to  his,  of  her  own  free  will. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it,"  she  whispered.     "I  was 
only  a  —  a-foolin'." 


The  year  was  older  by  a  month  when  one 
morning  Mrs.  Kndey  went  to  the  front  door  and 
stood  with  her  body  swaying  backward,  and  one 
rough  hand  roofing  the  rich  light  from  her  eyes. 

11  Emarine  'ad  ought  to  'a'  got  to  the  hill  path 
by  this  time,"  she  said,  in  a  grumbling  tone. 
"It  beats  me  what  keeps  her  so  !  I  reckon  she's 
a-standin'  like  a  bump  on  a  lawg,  watchin'  a  red 
ant  or  a  tumble-bug,  or  some  fool  thing  !  She'd 
leave  her  dish-washin'  any  time  an'  stand  at  the 
door  a-ketchin'  cold  in  her  bare  arms,  with  the 
suds  a-drippin'  all  over  her  apron  an'  the  floor  — 
a-listenin'  to  one  o'  them  silly  meadow-larks 
hollerin'  the  same  noise  over  'n  over.  Her  paw's 
women- folks  are  all  just  such  fools." 

She  started  guiltily  and  lowered  her  eyes  to 
the  gate  which  had  clicked  sharply. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "That  you,  Emarine?" 
She  laughed  rather  foolishly.  * '  I  was  lookin' 
right  over  you  —  lookin'  fer  you,  too.  Miss 
Presly's  be'n  here,  an'  of  all  the  strings  she  had 
to  tell !  Why,  fer  pity's  sake  1  Is  that  a  dollar's 
worth  o'  coffee?" 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCEXING-DOWN- 

"Yes,  it  is;  an'  I  guess  it's  full  weight,  too, 
from  the  way  my  arm  feels !  It's  just  about 
broke." 

"  Well,  give  it  to  me,  an'  come  on  out  in  the 
kitching.  I've  got  somethin'  to  tell  you." 

Kmarine  followed  slowly,  pinning  a  spray  of 
lilac  bloom  in  her  bosom  as  she  went. 

"  Emarine,  where's  that  spring  balance  at? 
I'm  goin'  to  weigh  this  coffee.  If  it's  one  grain 
short,  I'll  send  it  back  a-flyin'.  I'll  show  'em 
they  can't  cheat  this  old  hen  !" 

She  slipped  the  hook  under  the  string  and 
lifted  the  coffee  cautiously  until  the  balance  was 
level  with  her  eyes.  Then  standing  well  back 
on  her|heels  and  drawing  funny  little  wrinkles 
up  around  her  mouth  and  eyes,  she  studied  the 
figures  earnestly,  counting  the  pounds  and  the 
half-pounds  down  from  the  top.  Finally  she 
lowered  it  with  a  disappointed  air.  * '  Well, ' '  she 
said,  reluctantly,  "  it's  just  it — just  to  a  't.' 
They'd  ought  to  make  it  a  leetle  over,  though,  to 
allow  fer  the  paper  bag.  Get  the  coffee-canister, 
Kmarine. ' ' 

When  the  coffee  had  all  been  jiggled  through 
a  tin  funnel  into  the  canister,  Mrs.  Endey  sat 
down  stiffly  and  began  polishing  the  funnel  with 
a  cloth.  From  time  to  time  she  glanced  at  Em- 
arine  with  a  kind  of  deprecatory  mystery.  At 


92 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKIJNG-DOWlsr 

last  she  said — "  Miss  Presly  spent  the  day  down't 
Mis'  Farmer's  yesterday." 

"Did  she?"  said  Emarine,  coldly;  but  the 
color  came  into  her  cheeks.  "Shall  I  go  on  with 
the  puddin' ?" 

' '  Why,  you  can  if  you  want.  She  told  me 
some  things  I  don't  like." 

Emarine  shattered  an  egg-shell  on  the  side  of  a 
bowl  and  released  the  gold  heart  within. 

"  Miss  Presly  says  once  Mis'  Farmer  had  to  go 
out  an'  gether  the  eggs  an'  shet  up  the  chickens, 
so  Miss  Presly  didn't  think  there' d  be  any  harm 
in  just  lookin'  into  the  drawers  an'  things  to  see 
what  she  had.  She  says  she's  awful  short  on 
table  cloths  —  only  got  three  to  her  name  !  An' 
only  six  napkeens,  an'  them  coarse  's  anything ! 
When  Mis'  Farmer  come  back  in,  Miss  Presly 
talked  around  a  little,  then  she  says —  '  I  s'pose 
you're  one  o'  them  spic  an'  span  kind,  Mis'  Far 
mer,  that  alwus  has  a  lot  o'  extry  table  cloths  put 
away  in  lavender.'  " 

Emarine  set  the  egg-beater  into  the  bowl  and 
began  turning  it  slowly. 

"  Mis'  Farmer  got  mighty  red  all  of  a  sudden  ; 
but  she  says  right  out  —  '  No,  I'm  a-gettin' 
reel  short  on  table  cloths  an'  things,  Miss  Presly, 
but  I  ain't  goin'  to  replenish.  Orville  's  thinkin' 
o'  gettin'  married  this  year,  an'  I  guess  Emarine 
'11  have  a  lot  o'  extry  things.'  An'  then  she  ups 

93 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKI/TNG-DOWN 

an'  laughs  an'  says— 'I'll  let  her  stock  up  the 
house,  seein's  she's  so  anxious  to  get  into  it.'  " 

Eniarine  had  turned  pale.  The  egg-beater  fairly 
flew  round  and  round.  A  little  of  the  golden 
foam  slipped  over  the  edge  of  the  bowl  and  slid 
down  to  the  white  table. 

"  Miss  Presly  thinks  a  good  deal  o'  you,  Ema- 
rine,  so  that  got  her  spunk  up  ;  an'  she  just  told 
Mis'  Farmer  she  didn't  believe  you  was  dyin'  to 
go  there  an'  stock  up  her  drawers  fer  her.  Says 
she —  '  I  don't  think  young  people  'ad  ought  to 
live  with  mother-in-laws,  any  way.'  Said  she 
thought  she'd  let  Mis'  Fanner  put  that  in  her 
pipe  an'  smoke  it  when  she  got  time." 

There  was  a  pulse  in  each  side  of  Kmarine's 
throat  beating  hard  and  full.  Little  blue,  throb 
bing  cords  stood  out  in  her  temples.  She  went 
on  mixing  the  pudding  mechanically. 

u  Then  Mis'  Farmer  just  up  an'  said  with  a 
tantalizin'  laugh  that  if  you  didn't  like  the 
a-commodations  at  her  house,  you  needn't  to  come 
there.  Said  she  never  did  like  you,  anyways,  ner 
anybody  else  that  set  their  heels  down  the  way 
you  set  your'n.  Said  she'd  had  it  all  out  with 
Orville,  an'  he'd  promised  her  faithful  that  if  there 
was  any  knucklin'-down  to  be  done,  you'd  be  the 
one  to  do  it,  an'  not  her  !" 

Emarine  turned  and  looked  at  her  mother.  Her 
face  was  white  with  controlled  passion.  Her  eyes 

94 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG  DOWN 

burned.     But  her  voice  was  quiet  when  she  spoke. 

' '  I  guess  you'd  best  move  your  chair, ' '  she  said, 
"  so  'si  can  get  to  the  oven.  This  puddin'  's  all 
ready  to  go  in." 

When  she  had  put  the  pudding  in  the  oven  she 
moved  about  briskly,  clearing  the  things  off  the 
table  and  washing  them.  She  held  her  chin  high. 
There  was  no  doubt  now  about  the  click  of  her 
heels;  it  was  ominous. 

"  I  won't  marry  him  !"  she  cried  at  last,  fling 
ing  the  words  out.  ' '  He  can  have  his  mother  an' 
his  wore-out  table  cloths!"  Her  voice  shook. 
The  muscles  around  her  mouth  were  twitching. 

"My  mercy  !"  cried  her  mother.  She  had  a 
frightened  look.  "  Who  cares  what  his  mother 
says  ?  I  w'u'dn't  go  to  bitin'  off  my  nose  to  spite 
my  face,  if  I  was  you  !" 

"Well,  I  care  what  he  says.  I'll  see  myself 
knucklin'-down  to  a  mother-in-law  !" 

"Well,  now,  don't  go  an'  let  loose  of  your 
temper,  or  you  '11  be  sorry  fer  it.  You're  alwus 
mighty  ready  a-tellin'  me  not  to  mind  what  folks 
say,  an'  to  keep  away  from  the  old  gossips." 

"Well,  you  told  me  yourself,  didn't  you?  I 
can't  keep  away  from  my  own  mother  very  well, 
can  I?" 

"Well,  now,  don't  flare  up  so  !  You're  worse 
'n  karosene  with  a  match  set  to  it." 


95 


A  POINT   OF  KNUCKLING-DOWN 

"  What  'id  you  tell  me  for,  if  you  didn't  want 
Ish'u'd  flare  up?" 

"  Why,  I  thought  it  'u'd  just  put  you  on  your 
mettle  an'  show  her  she  c'u'dn't  come  it  over 
you."  Then  she  added,  diplomatically  chang 
ing  her  tone  as  well  as  the  subject  —  "  Oh,  say, 
Kmarine,  I  wish  you'd  go  up  in  the  antic  an' 
bring  down  a  bunch  o'  pennyrile.  I'll  watch  the 
puddin'." 

She  laughed  with  dry  humor  when  the  girl  was 
gone.  ' '  I  got  into  a  pickle  that  time.  Who  ever 
'd  V  thought  she'd  get  stirred  up  so  ?  I'll  have 
to  manage  to  get  her  cooled  down  before  Orville 
comes  to-night.  They  ain't  many  matches  like 
him,  if  his  mother  is  such  an  old  scarecrow.  He 
ain't  so  well  off,  but  he'll  humor  Emarine  up. 
He  'd  lay  down  an'  let  her  walk  on  him,  I  guess. 
There's  Mis'  Grisley  b'en  a-tryin'  fer  months  to 
get  him  to  go  with  her  lyily  — Lily,  with  a  com 
plexion  like  sole-leather  !  —  an'  a-askin'  him  up 
there  all  the  time  to  dinner,  an'  a-flatterin'  him 
up  to  the  skies.  I'd  like  to  know  what  they  al 
ways  name  dark-complected  babies  Lily  fer  !  Oh, 
did  you  get  the  pennyrile,  Kmarine?  I  was 
laughin'  to  myself,  a-woud'rin'  what  Mis'  Gris 
ley 's  Lily  '11  say  when  she  hears  you're  goin'  to 
marry  Orville." 

Emarine  hung  a  spotless  dish-cloth  on  two 
nails  behind  the  stove,  but  did  not  speak. 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

Mrs.  Endey  turned  her  back  to  the  girl  and 
smiled  humorously. 

"  That  didn't  work,"  she  thought.  "  I'll  have 
to  try  somethin'  else." 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  get  you  a  second- 
day  dress,  too,  Emarine.  You  can  have  it  any 
color  you  want  —  dove-color  'd  be  awful  nice. 
There's  a  hat  down  at  Mis'  Norton's  milliner' 
store  that  'u'd  go  beautiful  with  dove-color." 

Emarine  took  some  flat-irons  off  the  stove,  wiped 
them  carefully  with  a  soft  cloth  and  set  them 
evenly  on  a  shelf.  Still  she  did  not  speak.  Mrs. 
Endey's  face  took  on  an  anxious  look. 

"There's  some  beautiful  artaficial  orange  flow 
ers  at  Mis'  Norton's,  Emarine.  You  can  be  mar 
ried  in  'em,  if  you  want.  They're  so  reel  they 
almost  smell  sweet." 

She  waited  a  moment,  but  receiving  no  reply, 
she  added  with  a  kind  of  desperation —  "  An'  a 
veil,  Emarine  —  a  long,  white  one  a-flowin'  down 
all  over  you  to  your  feet  —  one  that  'u'd  just 
make  Mis'  Grisley's  Lily's  mouth  water.  What 
do  you  say  to  that?  You  can  have  that,  too,  if 
you  want." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  !"  said  Emarine,  fiercely. 
"  Didn't  I  say  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  marry  him  ?  I'll 
give  him  his  walking- chalk  when  he  comes  to 
night.  I  don't  need  any  help  about  it,  either." 
She  went  out,  closing  the  door  as  an  exclama 
tion  point. 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

Oregon  City  kept  early  hours.  The  curfew 
ringing  at  nine  o'clock  on  summer  evenings  gath 
ered  the  tender-aged  of  both  sexes  off  the  street. 

It  was  barely  seven  o'clock  when  Orville  Pal 
mer  came  to  take  Kmarine  out  for  a  drive.  He 
had  a  high  top-buggy,  rather  the  worse  for  wear, 
and  drove  a  sad-eyed,  sorrel  horse. 

She  was  usually  ready  to  come  tripping  down 
the  path,  to  save  his  tying  the  horse.  To-night 
she  did  not  come.  He  waited  a  while.  Then  he 
whistled  and  called—  "  Oh,  Bmarine  !" 

He  pushed  his  hat  back  and  leaned  one  elbow 
on  his  knee,  flicking  his  whip  up  and  down,  and 
looking  steadily  at  the  open  door.  But  she  did 
not  come.  Finally  he  got  out  and,  tying  his  horse, 
went  up  the  path  slowly.  Through  the  door  he 
could  see  Emarine  sitting  quietly  sewing.  He 
observed  at  once  that  she  was  pale. 

"Sick,  Emarine?''  he  said,  going  in. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  ain't  sick." 

"Then  why  under  the  sun  didn't  choo  come 
when  I  hollowed  ?' ' 

"  I  didn't  want  to."     Her  tone  was  icy. 

Pie  stared  at  her  a  full  minute.  Then  he  burst 
out  laughing.  "  Oh,  say,  Emarine,  yuh  can  be 
the  contrariest  girl  I  ever  see  !  Yuh  do  love  to 
tease  a  fellow  so.  Yuh '11  have  to  kiss  me  fer 
that." 

He  went  toward  her.     She  pushed  her  chair 


A  POINT   OF  KNUCKIJNG-DOWN 

back  and  gave  him  a  look  that  made  him  pause. 

"  How's  your  mother?"  she  asked. 

"My  mother?''  A  cold  chill  went  up  and 
down  his  spine.  "Why  — oh,  she  's  all  right. 
Why?" 

She  took  a  small  gold  ring  set  with  a  circle  of 
garnets  from  her  finger  and  held  it  toward  him 
with  a  steady  hand. 

"  You  can  take  an'  show  her  this  ring,  an'  tell 
her  I  ain't  so  awful  anxious  to  stock  her  up  on 
table  cloths  an'  napkeens  as  she  thinks  I  am. 
Tell  her  yuh  '11  get  some  other  girl  to  do  her 
knucklin'-down  fer  her.  I  ain't  that  kind." 

The  young  man's  face  grew  scarlet  and  then 
paled  off  rapidly.  He  looked  like  a  man  accused 
of  a  crime.  "  Why,  Kmarine,"  he  said,  feebly. 

He  did  not  receive  the  ring,  and  she  threw  it  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet.  A  whole  month  she  had 
slept  with  that  ring  against  her  lips — the  bond 
of  her  love  and  his  !  Now,  it  was  only  the  em 
blem  of  her  ' '  knuckling-down ' '  to  another  woman. 

"You  needn't  to  stand  there  a-pretendin'  you 
don't  know  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  I  don't,  Kmarine." 

"Yes,  you  do,  too.  Didn't  you  promise  your 
mother  that  if  there  was  any  knucklin'-down  to 
be  did,  I'd  be  the  one  to  do  it,  an'  not  her?* 

1 '  Why  —  er  —  Kmarine  — ' ' 

She  laughed  scornfully. 

99 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG- DOWN 

"  Don't  go  to  try  in'  to  get  out  of  it.  You  know 
you  did.  Well,  you  can  take  your  ring,  an'  your 
mother,  an'  all  her  old  duds.  I  don't  want  any 
o'  you." 

1 '  Kmarine, "  said  the  young  man,  looking  guilty 
and  honest  at  the  same  time,  *  *  the  talk  I  had 
with  my  mother  didn't  amount  to  a  pinch  o'  snuff. 
It  wa'n't  anything  to  make  yuh  act  this  way. 
She  don't  like  yuh  just  because  I'm  goin'  to  marry 
yuh"— 

"Oh,  but  you  ain't,"  interrupted  Emarine,  with 
an  aggravating  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  too.  She  kep'  naggin'  at  me  day 
an'  night  fer  fear  yuh'd  be  sassy  to  her  an'  she'd 
have  to  take  a  back  seat. ' ' 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  her  !"  in 
terrupted  Kmarine.  "She's  got  the  big-head. 
She  thinks  ev'ry  body  wants  to  rush  into  her  old 
house,  an'  marry  her  son,  an'  use  her  old  things  ! 
She  wants  to  make  ev'rybody  toe  her  mark." 

"Bmarine!     She's  my  mother." 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  is.  I  w'u'dn't  tech  her 
with  a  ten-foot  pole." 

"  She  '11  be  all  right  after  we're  married,  Em- 
arine,  an'  she  finds  out  how  —  how  nice  yuh  are." 

His  own  words  appealed  to  his  sense  of  the 
ridiculous.  He  smiled.  Bmarine  divined  the 
cause  of  his  reluctant  amusement  and  was  in- 


100 


A  POINT   OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

stantly   furious.     Her   face   turned   very   white. 
Her  eyes  burned  out  of  it  like  two  fires. 

"  You  think  I  ain't  actin'  very  nice  now,  don't 
you?  I  don't  care  what  you  think,  Orville  Far 
mer,  good  or  bad." 

The  young  man  stood  thinking  seriously. 

"Emarine,"  he  said,  at  last,  very  quietly,  "I 
love  yuh  an'  yuh  know  it.  An'  yuh  love  me. 
I'll  alwus  be  good  to  yuh  an'  see  that  choo  ain't 
emposed  upon,  Eniarine.  An'  I  think  the  world 
an'  all  of  yuh.  That's  all  I  got  to  say.  I  can't 

see  what  ails  yuh,  Eniarine When 

I  think  o'  that  day  when  I  asked  yuh  to  marry 

me An'  that  night  I  give  yuh  the 

ring" — the  girl's  eyelids  quivered  suddenly  and 
fell.     "  An'  that  moonlight  walk  we  took  along 

by   the  falls Why,   it  seems  as  if 

this  can't  be  the  same  girl." 

There  was  such  a  long  silence  that  Mrs. 
Endey,  cramping  her  back  with  one  ear  pressed 
to  the  keyhole  of  the  door,  decided  that  he  had 
won  and  smiled  dryly. 

At  last  Eniarine  lifted  her  head.  She  looked 
at  him  steadily.  "  Did  you,  or  didn't  you,  tell 
your  mother  I'd  have  to  do  the  knucklin' -down  ?" 

He  shuffled  his  feet  about  a  little. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  did,  Emarine,  but  I  didn't 
mean  anything.  I  just  did  it  to  get  a  little 
peace." 

101 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

The  poor  fellow  had  floundered  upon  an  un 
fortunate  excuse. 

"Oh!"  said  the  girl,  contemptuously.  Her 
lip  curled.  "An'  so  you  come  an'  tell  me  the 
same  thing  for  the  same  reason  — just  to  get  a 
little  peace  !  A  pretty  time  you'd  have  a-gettin' 
any  peace  at  all,  between  the  two  of  us  !  You're 
chickenish  —  an'  I  hate  chickenish  people. " 

"Emarine!" 

"Oh,  I  wish  you'd  go."  There  was  an  almost 
desperate  weariness  in  her  voice. 

He  picked  up  the  ring  with  its  shining  garnet 
stars,  and  went. 

Mrs.  Kndey  tiptoed  into  the  kitchen. 

"My  back's  about  broke."  She  laughed 
noiselessly.  "I  swan  I'm  proud  o'  that  girl. 
She's  got  more  o'  me  in  her  'n  I  give  her  credit 
fer.  The  idee  o'  her  a-callin'  him  chickenish 
right  out  to  his  face !  That  done  me  good. 
Well,  I  don't  care  such  an  awful  lot  if  she  don't 
marry  him.  A  girl  with  that  much  spunk  de 
serves  a  gov'nor!  An'  that  mother  o'  his'n  's 
a  case.  I  guess  her  an'  me  'd  'a'  fit  like  cats  an' 
dogs,  anyhow."  Her  lips  unclosed  with  reluc 
tant  mirth. 

The  next  morning  Emarine  arose  and  went 
about  her  work  as  usual.  She  had  not  slept. 
But  there  were  no  signs  of  relenting,  or  of  regret, 

102 


A   POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

in  her  face.  After  the  first  surreptitious  look  at 
her,  Mrs.  Kndey  concluded  that  it  was  all  settled 
unchangeably.  Her  aspiring  mind  climbed  from 
a  governor  to  a  United  States  senator.  There 
was  nothing  impossible  to  a  girl  who  could  break 
her  own  heart  at  night  and  go  about  the  next 
morning  setting  her  heels  down  the  way  Kmarine 
was  setting  hers. 

Mrs.  Kndey's  heart  swelled  with  triumph. 

Kmarine  washed  the  dishes  and  swept  the 
kitchen.  Then  she  went  out  to  sweep  the  porch. 
Suddenly  she  paused.  A  storm  of  lyric  passion 
had  burst  upon  her  ear  ;  and  running  through  it 
she  heard  the  words — "Sweet  —  oh  —  Sweet  — 
my  heart  is  breaking  !  '  * 

The  girl  trembled.  Something  stung  her  eyes 
sharply. 

Then  she  pulled  herself  together  stubbornly. 
Her  face  hardened.  She  went  on  sweeping  with 
more  determined  care  than  usual. 

1  'Well,  I  reckon,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of 
fierce  philosophy,  "it  'u'd  'a'  been  breaking  a 
good  sight  worse  if  I'd  'a'  married  him  an'  that 
mother  o'  his'n.  That's  some  comfort." 

.But  when  she  went  in  she  closed  the  door  care 
fully,  shutting  out  that  impassioned  voke. 


103 


A  POINT    oF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


PART  II 

It  was  eight  o'clock  of  a  June  morning.  It 
had  rained  during  the  night.  Now  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  sunshine  on  the  wet  leaves  and 
flowers. 

Mrs.  Endey  was  ironing.  The  table  stood 
across  the  open  window,  up  which  a  wild  honey 
suckle  climbed,  flinging  out  slender,  green  shoots, 
each  topped  with  a  cluster  of  scarlet  spikes. 
The  splendor  of  the  year  was  at  its  height.  The 
flowers  were  marching  by  in  pomp  and  magnifi 
cence. 

Mrs.  Endey  spread  a  checked  gingham  apron 
on  the  ironing  cloth.  It  was  trimmed  at  the 
bottom  with  a  ruffle,  which  she  pulled  and 
smoothed  with  careful  fingers. 

She  selected  an  iron  on  the  stove,  set  the 
wooden  handle  into  it  with  a  sharp,  little  click, 
and  polished  it  on  a  piece  of  scorched  newspaper. 
Then  she  moved  it  evenly  across  the  starched 
apron.  A  shining  path  followed  it. 

At  that  moment  some  one  opened  the  gate. 
Mrs.  Endey  stooped  to  peer  through  the  vines. 

"  Well,  'f  I  ever  'n  all  my  natcherl  life  !"  she 
said,  solemnly.  She  set  the  iron  on  its  stand 
and  lifted  her  figure  erect.  She  placed  one  hand 
on  her  hip,  and  with  the  other  rubbed  her  chin 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

in  perplexed  thought.  "If  it  ain't  Orville  Par 
tner,  you  may  shoot  me !  That  beats  me  !  I 
wonder  'f  he  thinks  Kmarine  's  a-dyin'  o'  love 
fer  him  !" 

Then  a  thought  came  that  made  her  feel  faint. 
She  fell  into  a  chair,  weakly.  "  Oh,  my  land  !" 
she  said.  "I  wonder  'f  that  ain't  what's  the 
matter  of  her  !  I  never 'd  thought  o'  that.  I'd 
thought  o'  ev'ry thing  but  that.  I  wonder ! 
There  she's  lied  flat  o'  her  back  ever  sence  she 
fell  out  with  him  a  month  ago.  Oh,  my  mercy  ! 
I  wonder  'f  that  is  it.  Here  I've  b'en  rackin' 
my  brains  to  find  out  what  ails  'er." 

She  got  up  stiffly  and  went  to  the  door.  The 
young  man  standing  there  had  a  pale,  anxious 
face. 

"  Good-mornin',  Mis'  Endey,"  he  said.  He 
looked  with  a  kind  of  entreaty  into  her  grim 
face.  "  I  come  to  see  Kmarine." 

"Emarine's  sick."     She    spoke    coldly. 

1  *  I  know  she  is,  Mis'  Kndey . ' '  His  voice  shook. 
"If  it  wa'n't  fer  her  bein'  sick,  I  w'u'dn't  be 
here.  I  s'pose,  after  the  way  she  sent  me  off,  I 
ain't  got  any  spunk  or  I  w'u'dn't  'a'  come  any 
way  ;  but  I  heard — ' ' 

He  hesitated  and  looked  away. 

44  What  'id  you  hear?" 

"  I  heard  she  wa'n't  a-goin*  to — get  well." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

I05 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

X 

"Is  she?"  he  asked,  then.  His  voice  was 
low  and  broken. 

Mrs.  Kndey  sat  down.  "I  do'  know,"  she 
said,  after  another  silence.  "I'm  offul  worried 
about  her,  Orville.  I  can't  make  out  what  ails 
'er.  She  won't  eat  a  thing  ;  even  floatin'  island 
turns  agi'n  'er  —  an'  she  al'ays  loved  that." 

"Oh,  Mis'  Endey,  can't  I  see  'er  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  's  it  'u'd  be  any  use.  Emarine's 
turrable  set.  *F  you  hadn't  went  an'  told  your 
mother  that  if  there  was  any  knucklin'-down  to 
be  did  between  her  an'  Bmarine,  Kmarine  'u'd 
have  to  do  it,  you  an'  her'd  'a'  b'en  married  by 
this  time.  I'd  bought  most  ha'f  her  weddin' 
things  a' ready." 

The  young  man  gave  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a 
groan.  He  looked  like  one  whose  sin  has  found 
him  out.  He  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  putting 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  sunk  his  face  into  his 
brown  hands. 

"Good  God,  Mis'  Kndey!"  he  said,  with 
passionate  bitterness.  "Can't  choo  ever  stop 
harpin'  on  that?  Ain't  I  cursed  myself  day  an' 
night  ever  sence?  Oh,  I  wish  yuh'd  help  me  !" 
He  lifted  a  wretched  face.  "  I  didn't  mean  any 
thing  by  tellin'  my  mother  that ;  she's  a-gettin' 
kind  o'  childish,  an'  she  was  afraid  Bmarine  'u'd 
run  over  'er.  But  if  she'll  only  take  me  back, 
she'll  have  ev'ry thing  her  own  way." 

106 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

A  little  gleam  of  triumph  came  into  Mrs. 
Endey's  face.  Evidently  the  young  man  was 
rapidly  becoming  reduced  to  a  frame  of  mind  de 
sirable  in  a  son-in-law. 

"Will  you  promise  that,  solemn,  Orville  Far 
mer?"  She  looked  at  him  sternly. 

1  'Yes,  Mis'  Endey,  I  will  — solemn."  His 
tone  was  at  once  wretched  and  hopeful.  "I'll 
promise  anything  under  the  sun,  Jf  she'll  only 
fergive  me.  I  can't  live  without  'er  —  an'  that's 
all  there  is  about  it.  Won't  choo  ask  her  to  see 
me,  Mis'  Endey?" 

"  Well,  I  do'  know,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  doubt 
fully.  She  cleared  her  throat,  and  sat  looking  at 
the  floor,  as  if  lost  in  thought.  He  should  never 
have  it  to  say  that  she  had  snapped  him  up  too 
readily.  "I  don't  feel  much  like 'meddlin'.  I 
must  say  I  side  with  Emarine.  I  do  think" — 
her  tone  became  regretful — "  a  girl  o'  her  spir't 
deserves  a  go v' nor." 

"I  know  she  does,"  said  the  young  man, 
miserably.  "I  alwus  knew  /  wa'n't  ha'f  good 
enough  fer  'er.  But  Mis'  Endey,  I  know  she 
loves  me.  Won' t  choo  — ' ' 

"  Well !"  Mrs.  Endey  gave  a  sigh  of  resigna 
tion.  She  got  up  very  slowly,  as  if  still  un 
decided.  "  I'll  see  what  she  says  to  't.  But  I'll 
tell  you  right  out  I  sha'n't  advise  'er,  Orville." 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her  with  deliberate 

107 


A  POINT  OP  KNITCKUNG-DOWN 

care.  She  laughed  dryly  as  she  went  up  stairs, 
holding  her  head  high.  "There's  nothin'  like 
makin'  your  own  terms,"  she  said,  shrewdly. 

She  was  gone  a  long  time.  When  Orville 
heard  her  coming  lumbering  back  down  the 
stairs  and  along  the  hall,  his  heart  stopped 
beating. 

Her  coming  meant  —  everything  to  him  ;  and 
it  was  so  slow  and  so  heavy  it  seemed  ominous. 
For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak,  and  her  face 
told  him  nothing.  Then  he  faltered  out  — ' '  Will 
she?  Oh,  don't  choo  say  she  won't !" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  with  a  sepulchral 
sigh,  "she'll  see  you,  but  I  don't  know  's  any 
thing  '11  come  of  it.  Don't  you  go  to  bracin'  up 
on  that  idee,  Orville  Farmer.  She's  set  like  a 
strip  o'  calico  washed  in  alum  water." 

The  gleam  of  hope  that  her  first  words  had 
brought  to  his  face  was  transitory.  "You  can 
come  on,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  lifting  her  chin 
solemnly. 

Orville  followed  her  in  silence. 

The  little  room  in  which  Emarine  lay  ill  was 
small  and  white,  like  a  nun's  chamber.  The 
ceiling  slanted  on  two  sides.  There  was  white 
matting  on  the  floor  ;  there  was  an  oval  blue  rug 
of  braided  rags  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  an 
other  in  front  of  the  bureau.  There  was  a  small 
cane-seated  and  cane-backed  rocker.  By  the  side 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

of  the  bed  was  a  high,  stiff  wooden  chair,  painted 
very   black   and  trimmed  with  very  blue  roses. 

There  were  two  or  three  pictures  on  the  walls. 
The  long  curtains  of  snowy  butter-cloth  were 
looped  high. 

The  narrow  white  bed  had  been  wheeled 
across  the  open  window,  so  Bmarine  could  lie  and 
look  down  over  the  miles  of  green  valley,  with 
the  mellifluous  Willamette  winding  through  it 
like  a  broad  silver-blue  ribbon.  By  turning  her 
head  a  little  she  could  see  the  falls  ;  the  great 
bulk  of  water  sliding  over  the  precipice  like  glass, 
to  be  crushed  into  powdered  foam  and  flung  high 
into  the  sunlight,  and  then  to  go  seething  on  down 
to  the  sea. 

At  sunrise  and  at  sunset  the  mist  blown  up  in 
long  veils  from  the  falls  quickened  of  a  sudden 
to  rose  and  gold  and  purple,  shifting  and  blend 
ing  into  a  spectral  glow  of  thrilling  beauty.  It 
was  sweeter  than  guests  to  Kmarine. 

The  robins  were  company,  too,  in  the  large 
cherry  tree  outside  of  her  window  ;  and  sometimes 
a  flight  of  wild  canaries  drifted  past  like  a 
yellow,  singing  cloud.  When  they  sank,  swiftly 
and  musically,  she  knew  that  it  was  to  rest  upon 
a  spot  golden  with  dandelions. 

Outside  the  door  of  this    room    Mrs.    Endey 
paused.     "  I  don't  see  's  it  'u'd  be  proper  to  let 
you  go  in  to  see  'er  alone,"  she  said,  sternly. 
109 

r 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

Orville's  eyes  were  eloquent  with  entreaty. 
"  Lord  knows  there  w'u'dn't  be  any  harm  in  't," 
he  said,  humbly  but  fervently.  "I  feel  jest  as  if 
I  was  goin'  in  to  see  an  angel." 

Mrs.  Kndey's  face  softened  ;  but  at  once  a  smile 
came  upon  it  —  one  of  those  smiles  of  reluctant, 
uncontrollable  humor  that  take  us  unawares 
sometimes,  even  in  the  most  tragic  moments. 
''She's  got  too  much  spunk  fer  an  angel,"  she 
said. 

"Don't  choo  go  to  runnin'  of  her  down!" 
breathed  Orville,  with  fierce  and  reckless  defiance. 

"I  wa'n't  a-runnin'  of  her  down,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Bndey,  coldly.  "You  don't  ketch  me 
a-runnin'  of  my  own  kin  down,  Orville  Farmer  !" 
She  glowered  at  him  under  drawn  brows.  "An* 
I  won't  stand  anybody  else's  a-runnin'  of  'em 
down  or  a-walkin'  over  'em,  either  !  There  ain't 
no  call  fer  you  to  tell  me  not  to  run  'em  down." 
Her  look  grew  blacker.  "I  reckon  we'd  best 
settle  all  about  your  mother  before  we  go  in  there, 
Orville  Farmer." 

"  What  about  'er  ?"  His  tone  was  miserable  ; 
his  defiance  was  short-lived. 

"Why,  there's  no  use  'n  your  goin'  in  there 
unless  you're  ready  to  promise  that  you'll  give 
Emarine  the  whip-hand  over  your  mother.  You 
best  make  up  your  mind." 

"It's  made  up,"  said  the  young  fellow,  desper- 

no 


A  POINT   OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

ately.  "  I^ord  Almighty,  Mis'  Bndey,  it's  made 
up." 

"Well."  She  turned  the  door-knob.  "I 
know  it  ain't  the  thing,  an'  I'd  die  if  Miss  Pres 
ley  sh'u'd  come  an'  find  out  —  the  town  w'u'dn't 
hold  her,  she'd  talk  so  !  Well !  Now,  don't 
stay  too  long.  'F  I  see  anybody  a-comin'  I'll 
cough  at  the  foot  o'  the  stairs." 

She  opened  the  door  and  when  he  had  passed 
in,  closed  it  with  a  bitter  reluctance.  "It  ain't 
the  proper  thing, ' '  she  repeated ;  and  she  stood 
for  some  moments  with  her  ear  bent  to  the  key 
hole.  A  sudden  vision  of  Miss  Presley  coming 
up  the  stairs  to  see  Kmarine  sent  her  down  to  the 
kitchen  with  long,  cautious  strides,  to  keep  guard. 

Kmarine  was  propped  up  with  pillows.  Her 
mother  had  dressed  her  in  a  white  sacque,  con 
sidering  it  a  degree  more  proper  than  a  night 
dress.  There  was  a  wide  ruffle  at  the  throat, 
trimmed  with  serpentine  edging.  Kmarine  was 
famous  for  the  rapidity  with  which  she  crocheted, 
as  well  as  for  the  number  and  variety  of  her  pat 
terns. 

Orville  went  with  clumsy  noiselessness  to  the 
white  bed.  He  was  holding  his  breath.  His 
hungry  eyes  had  a  look  of  rising  tears  that  are 
held  back.  They  took  in  everything  —  the  girl's 
paleness  and  her  thinness ;  the  beautiful  dark 
hair,  loose  upon  the  pillow;  the  blue  veins  in 

in 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

her  temples ;  the  dark  lines  under  her  languid 
eyes. 

He  could  not  speak.  He  fell  upon  his  knees, 
and  threw  one  arm  over  her  with  compelling 
passion,  but  carefully,  too,  as  one  would  touch  a 
flower,  and  laid  his  brow  against  her  hand.  His 
shoulders  swelled.  A  great  sob  struggled  from 
his  breast.  "Oh,  Bmarine,  Emarine !"  he 
groaned.  Then  there  was  utter  silence  between 
them. 

After  a  while,  without  lifting  his  head,  he 
pushed  her  sleeve  back  a  very  little  and  pressed 
trembling,  reverent  lips  upon  the  pulse  beating 
irregularly  in  her  slim  wrist. 

"Oh,  Emarine  !"  he  said,  still  without  lifting 
his  head.  ' '  I  love  yuh  —  I  love  yuh  !  I've  suf 
fered —  oh,  to  think  o'  you  layin'  here  sick, 
night  after  night  fer  a  whole  month,  an'  me  not 
here  to  do  things  fer  yuh.  I've  laid  awake  im- 
aginin'  that  yuh  wanted  a  fresh  drink  an'  c'u'dn't 
make  anybody  hear  ;  or  that  yuh  wanted  a  cool 
cloth  on  your  forrid,  or  a  little  jell- water,  or 
somethin'.  I've  got  up  'n  the  middle  o'  the 
night  an'  come  an'  stood  out  at  your  gate  tell  I'd 
see  a  shado'  on  the  curt'n  an'  know  yuh  wa'n't 
alone Oh,  Emarine,  Emarine  !" 

She  moved  her  hand  ;  it  touched  his  throat 
and  curved  itself  there,  diffidently.  He  threw  up 
his  head  and  looked  at  her.  A  rush  of  passion- 

112 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKIvING-DOWN 

ate,  startled  joy  stung  through  him  like  needles, 
filling  his  throat.  He  trembled  strongly.  Then 
his  arms  were  about  her  and  he  had  gathered  her 
up  against  his  breast ;  their  lips  were  shaking 
together,  after  their  long  separation,  in  those 
kisses  but  one  of  which  is  worth  a  lifetime  of  all 
other  kisses. 

Presently  he  laid  her  back  very  gently  upon 
her  pillow,  and  still  knelt  looking  at  her  with 
his  hand  on  her  brow.  "I've  tired  yuh,"  he 
said,  with  earnest  self-reproach.  "  I  won't  do  't 
ag'in,  Kmarine  — I  promise.  When  I  looked  'n 
your  eyes  an'  see  that  yuh'd  fergive  me ;  when  I 
felt  your  hand  slip  'round  my  neck,  like  it  ust  to, 
an'  like  I've  b'en  starvirf  to  feel  it  fer  a  month, 
Kmarine  —  I  c'u'dn't  help  it,  nohow ;  but  I  won't 
do  't  ag'in.  Oh,  to  think  that  I've  got  choo 
back  ag'in  !" 

He  laid  his  head  down,  still  keeping  his  arm 
thrown,  lightly  and  tenderly  as  a  mother's,  over 
her. 

The  sick  girl  looked  at  him.  Her  face  settled 
into  a  look  of  stubbornness  ;  the  exaltation  that 
had  transfigured  it  a  moment  before  was  gone. 
"  You'll  have  to  promise  me,"  she  said,  "about 
your  mother,  you  know.  I'll  have  to  be  first." 

"Yuh  shall  be,  Emarine." 

"You'll  have  to  promise  that  if  there's  any 
knucklin'-down,  she'll  do  't,  an'  not  me." 

113 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKLING -DOWN 

Removed  uneasily.  "Oh,  don't  choo  worry, 
Emarine.  It  '11  be  all  right." 

"  Well,  I  want  it  settled  now.  You'll  have  to 
promise  solemn  that  you'll  stand  by  ev'ry thing  I 
do,  an'  let  me  have  things  my  way.  If  you  don't, 
you  can  go  back  the  way  you  come.  But  I  know 
you'll  keep  your  word  if  you  promise." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will." 

But  he  kept  his  head  down  and  did  not  prom 
ise. 

"Well?"  she  said,  and  faint  as  she  was,  her 
voice  was  like  steel. 

But  still  he  did  not  promise. 

After  a  moment  she  lifted  her  hand  and  curved 
it  about  his  throat  again.  He  started  to  draw 
away,  but  almost  instantly  shuddered  closer  to 
her  and  fell  to  kissing  the  white  lace  around  her 
neck. 

"Well,"  she  said,  coldly,  "hurry  an'  make 
your  choice.  I  hear  mother  a-comin'." 

"Oh,  Emarine!"  he  burst  out,  passionately. 
"I  promise  —  I  promise  yuh  ev'ry  thing.  My 
mother's  gittin'  old  an'  childish,  an'  it  ain't  right, 
but  I  can't  give  you  up  ag'in  —  I  can't!  I  prom 
ise —  I  swear !" 

Her  face  took  on  a  tenderness  worthy  a  nobler 
victory.  She  slipped  her  weak,  bare  arm  up 
around  him  and  drew  his  lips  down  to  hers. 

An  hour  later  he  walked  away  from  the  house, 

114 


A   POINT   OF    KNUCK  UNO-DOWN 

the  happiest  man  in  Oregon  City  —  or  in  all  Ore 
gon,  for  that  matter.  Mrs.  Kndey  watched  him 
through  the  vines.  "Well,  he's  a-walkin'  knee- 
deep  in  promises,"  she  reflected,  with  a  comfort 
able  laugh,  as  she  sent  a  hot  iron  hissing  over  a 
newly  sprinkled  towel.  "  I  guess  that  mother  o' 
his'n  '11  learn  a  thing  er  two  if  she  tries  any  o' 
her  back-sass  with  Emarine. ' ' 

Kmarine  gained  strength  rapidly.  Orville 
urged  an  immediate  marriage,  but  Mrs  Kndey 
objected.  "  I  won't  hear  to  't  tell  Bmarine  gits 
her  spunk  back, ' '  she  declared.  ' '  When  she  gits 
to  settin'  her  heels  down  the  way  she  ust  to  before 
she  got  sick,  she  can  git  married.  I'll  know  then 
she's  got  her  spunk  back." 

Toward  the  last  of  July  Kmarine  commenced 
setting  her  heels  down  in  the  manner  approved 
by  her  mother ;  so,  on  the  first  of  August  they 
were  married  and  went  to  live  with  Mrs.  Palmer. 
At  the  last  moment  Mrs.  Kndey  whispered  grimly 
—  "  Now,  you  mind  you  hold  your  head  high." 

"  Hunh  !"  said  Kmarine.  She  lifted  her  chin 
so  high  and  so  suddenly  that  her  long  ear-rings 
sent  out  flashes  in  all  directions. 


They  had  been  married  a  full  month  when  Mrs. 
Kndey  went  to  spend  a  day  at  the  Palmer's.  She 
had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  all  was  not  so  tran- 

"5 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKIvING-DOWN 

quil  there  as  it  might  be.  She  walked  in  un 
bidden  and  unannounced. 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  sun  shown  softly 
through  the  languid  purple  haze  that  brooded 
upon  the  valley.  Crickets  and  grasshoppers 
crackled  through  the  grasses  and  ferns.  The  noble 
mountains  glimmered  mistily  in  the  distance. 

Mrs.  Palmer  was  sewing  a  patch  on  a  table 
cloth.  Kmarine  was  polishing  silverware.  *  *  Oh  !' ' 
she  said,  with  a  start.  "  You,  is  't  ?" 

''Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  sitting  down,  "me. 
I  come  to  spen'  the  day." 

"  I  didn't  hear  yuh  knock,"  said  Mrs.  Palmer, 
dryly.  She  was  tall  and  stoop-shouldered.  She 
had  a  thin,  sour  face  and  white  hair.  One  knew, 
only  to  look  at  her,  that  life  had  given  her  all  its 
bitters  and  but  few  of  its  sweets. 

"I  reckon  not,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  "seem*  I 
didn't  knock.  I  don't  knock  at  my  own  daugh 
ter's  door.  Well,  forever  !  Do  you  patch  table 
cloths,  Mis'  Parmer  ?  I  never  hear  tell !  I  have 
see  darnt  ones,  but  I  never  see  a  patched  one." 
She  laughed  aggravatingly. 

"Oh,  that's  nothin',"  said  Emarine,  over  her 
shoulder,  "we  have  'em  made  out  o'  flour  sacks 
here,  fer  breakfas'." 

Then  Mrs.  Palmer  laughed  —  a  thin,  bitter 
laugh.  Her  face  was  crimson.  "Yaas,"  she 
said,  "  I  use  patched  table- cloths,  an'  table-cloths 

116 


A   POINT   OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

made  out  o'  flour  sacks ;  but  I  never  did  wear 
underdo 's  made  out  o'  unbleached  muslin  in  my 
life." 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  Emarine  gave  her 
mother  a  look,  as  much  as  to  say  —  ' '  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  "  Mrs.  Endey  smiled.  "  Thank 
mercy  !  "  she  said.  "  Dog-days  '11  soon  be  over. 
The  smoke's  liftin'  a  leetle.  I  guess  you  an' 
Orville  '11  git  your  house  painted  afore  the  fall 
rain  comes  on,  Bmarine?  It  needs  it  turrable 
bad." 

"They  ain't  got  the  paintin'  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Palmer,  cutting  a  thread  with  her  teeth.  "It 
don't  happen  to  be  their  house." 

"Well,  it's  all  the  same.  It  '11  git  painted  if 
Emarine  wants  it  sh'u'd.  Oh,  Emarine  !  Where'd 
you  git  them  funny  teaspoons  at  ?  " 

"  They're  Orville' s  mother's."  Emarine  gave 
a  mirthful  titter. 

' '  I  want  to  know  !  Ain't  them  funny  ?  Thin's 
no  name  fer  'm.  You'd  ought  to  see  the  ones 
my  mother  left  me,  Mis'  Farmer  —  thick,  my  ! 
One  'u'd  make  the  whole  dozen  o'  you'rn.  I'll 
have  'em  out  an'  ask  you  over  to  tea." 

"I've  heerd  about  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Palmer, 
with  the  placidity  of  a  momentary  triumph. 
"The  people  your  mother  worked  out  fer  give 
'em  to  her,  didn't  they?  My  mother  got  her'n 
from  her  gran' mother.  She  never  worked  out, 

117 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

She  never  lived  in  much  style,  but  she  al'ays  had 
a  plenty. " 

"My- 07"  said  Mrs.  Kndey,  scornfully. 

"  I  guess  I'd  best  git  the  dinner  on,"  said  Em- 
arine.  She  pushed  the  silver  to  one  side  with  a 
clatter.  She  brought  some  green  corn  from  the 
porch  and  commenced  tearing  off  the  pale  em 
erald  husks. 

"D'you  want  I  sh'u'd  help  shuck  it?"  said 
her  mother. 

"  No ;  I'm  ust  to  doin'  't  alone." 

A  silence  fell  upon  all  three.  The  fire  rn^de  a 
cheerful  noise ;  the  kettle  steamed  sociably ; 
some  soup-meat,  boiling,  gave  out  a  savory  odor. 
Mrs.  Bndey  leaned  back  comfortably  in  her  rock 
ing-chair.  There  was  a  challenge  in  the  very 
fold  of  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

Mrs.  Palmer  sat  erect,  stiff  and  thin.  The 
side  of  her  face  was  toward  Mrs.  Bndey.  She 
never  moved  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  but  watched 
her  hostilely  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  like 
a  hen  on  the  defensive. 

It  was  Mrs.  Bndey  who  finally  renewed  hostil 
ities.  "Emarine,"  she  said,  sternly,  "what  are 
you  a-doin'  ?  Shortenin'  your  biscuits  with 
iardf" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Bndey  sniffed  contemptuously.  "They 
won't  be  fit  to  eat !  You  feathered  your  nest, 

118 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

didn't  you?  Fer  mercy's  sake  !  Can't  you  buy 
butter  to  shorten  your  biscuits  with?  You'll  be 
makin'  patata  soup  next  !" 

Then  Mrs.  Palmer  stood  up.  There  was  a  red 
spot  on  each  cheek. 

"Mis'  Endey,"  she  said,  "  if  yuh  don't  like 
the  'comadations  in  this  house,  won't  you  be  so 
good  's  to  go  where  they're  better  ?  I  must  say 
I  never  wear  underdo' s  made  out  o'  unbleached 
muslin  in  my  life  !  The  hull  town's  see  'em  on 
your  clo's  line,  an'  tee-hee  about  it  behind  your 
back.  I  notice  your  daughter  was  mighty 
ready  to  git  inhere  an  'shorten  biscuits  with  lard, 
an'  use  patched  table-cloths,  an' — " 

"  Oh,  mother!" 

It  was  her  son's  voice.  He  stood  in  the  door. 
His  face  was  white  and  anxious.  He  looked  at 
the  two  women  ;  then  his  eyes  turned  with  a 
terrified  entreaty  to  Kmarine's  face.  It  was  hard 
as  flint. 

"It's  time  you  come,"  she  said,  briefly. 
''Your  mother  just  ordered  my  mother  out  o' 
doors.  Whose  house  is  this?*' 

He  was  silent. 

"Say,  Orville  Farmer!  whose  house  is  this?" 

"Oh,  Emarine!" 

"  Don't  you  'oh,  Emarine'  me  !  You  answer 
up  !" 

"  Oh,  Emarine,  don't  let's  quar'l.  We've  only 
119 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

b'en  married  a  month.  Let  them  quar'l,  if  they 
want — " 

"  You  answer  up.     Whose  house  is  this  ?  " 

"It's  mine,"  he  said  in  his  throat. 

"  You'rn  !     Your  mother  calls  it  her'n." 

"  Well,  it  is,"  he  said,  with  a  desperation  that 
rendered  the  situation  tragic.  "Oh,  Emarine, 
what's  mine  's  her'n.  Father  left  it  to  me,  but  o' 
course  he  knew  it  'u'd  be  her'n,  too.  She  likes 
to  call  it  her'n." 

"  Well,  she  can't  turn  my  mother  out  o'  doors. 
I'm  your  wife  an'  this  is  my  house,  if  it's 
you'rn.  I  guess  it  ain't  hardly  big  enough  fer 
your  mother  an'  me,  too.  I  reckon  one  o'  us  had 
best  git  out.  I  don't  care  much  which,  only  I 
don't  knuckle-down  to  nobody.  I  won't  be  set 
upon  by  nobody." 

"Oh,  Emarine !"  There  was  terror -in  his 
face  and  voice.  He  huddled  into  a  chair  and 
covered  his  eyes  with  both  hands.  Mrs.  Palmer, 
also,  sat  down,  as  if  her  limbs  had  suddenly  refused 
to  support  her.  Mrs.  Endey  ceased  rocking  and 
sat  with  folded  hands,  grimly  awaiting  develop 
ments. 

Emarine  stood  with  the  backs  of  her  hands  on 
her  hips.  She  had  washed  the  flour  off  after  put 
ting  the  biscuits  in  the  oven,  and  the  palms  were 
pink  and  full  of  soft  curves  like  rose  leaves  ;  her 
thumbs  were  turned  out  at  right  angles.  Her 
120 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG  DOWN 

cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her  eyes  were  like  dia 
monds. 

"  One  o'  us  '11  have  to  git  out,"  she  said  again. 
"It's  fer  you  to  say  which  'n,  Orville  Fanner. 
I'd  just  as  soon.  I  won't  upbraid  you,  'f  you  say 
me." 

"Well,  I  won't  upbraid  choo,  if  yuh  say  me," 
spoke  up  his  mother.  Her  face  was  gray.  Her 
chin  quivered,  but  her  voice  was  firm.  "Yuh 
speak  up,  Orville." 

Orville  groaned — "Oh,  mother  !  Oh,  Bmarine !" 
His  head  sunk  lower;  his  breast  swelled  with 
great  sobs  —  the  dry,  tearing  sobs  that  in  a  man 
are  so  terrible.  "  To  think  that  you  two  women 
sh'u'd  both  love  me,  an1  then  torcher  me  this 
way  !  Oh,  God,  what  can  I  do  er  say  ?" 

Suddenly  Kmarine  uttered  a  cry,  and  ran  to 
him.  She  tore  his  hands  from  his  face  and  cast 
herself  upon  his  breast,  and  with  her  delicate 
arms  locked  tight  about  his  throat,  set  her  warm, 
throbbing  lips  upon  his  eyes,  his  brow,  his  mouth, 
in  deep,  compelling  kisses.  "I'm  your  wife ! 
I'm  your  wife!  I'm  your  wife!"  she  panted. 
"You  promised  ev'ry thing  to  get  me  to  marry 
you  !  Can  you  turn  me  out  now,  an'  make  me  a 
laughin'-stawk  fer  the  town?  Can  you  give  me 
up  ?  You  love  me,  an'  I  love  you  !  I^et  me  show 
you  how  I  love  you  —  " 

She  felt  his  arms  close  around  her  convulsively. 

121 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKTJNG-DOWN 

Then  his  mother  arose  and  came  to  them,  and 
laid  her  wrinkled,  shaking  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"My  son,"  she  said,  "let  me  show  yuh  how  7 
love  yuh.  I'm  your  mother.  I've  worked  fer 
yuh,  an'  done  fer  yuh  all  your  life,  but  the  time's 
come  fer  me  to  take  a  back  seat.  Its  be'n  hard  — 
it's  be'n  ofRil  hard  —  an'  I  guess  I've  be'n  mean 
an'  hateful  to  Bmarine  —  but  it's  be'n  hard. 
Yuh  keep  Kmarine,  an'  I'll  go.  Yuh  want  her 
an'  I  want  choo  to  be  happy.  Don't  choo  worry 
about  me  —  I'll  git  along  all  right.  Yuh  won't 
have  to  decide  —  I'll  go  of  myself.  That's  the 
way  mothers  love,  my  son  !" 

She  walked  steadily  out  of  the  kitchen  ;  and 
though  her  head  was  shaking,  it  was  carried 
high. 

PART  III 

It  was  the  day  before  Christmas — an  Oregon 
Christmas.  It  had  rained  mistily  at  dawn;  but 
at  ten  o'clock  the  clouds  had  parted  and  moved 
away  reluctantly.  There  was  a  blue  and  dazzling 
sky  overhead.  The  rain-drops  still  sparkled  on 
the  windows  and  on  the  green  grass,  and  the  last 
roses  and  chrysanthemums  hung  their  beautiful 
heads  heavily  beneath  them;  but  there  was  to  be 
no  more  rain.  Oregon  City's  mighty  barometer — 
the  Falls  of  the  Willamette — was  declaring  to  her 

122 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKLING-  DOWN 

people  by  her  softened  roar  that  the  morrow  was 
to  be  fair. 

Mrs.  Orville  Palmer  was  in  the  large  kitchen 
making  preparations  for  the  Christmas  dinner. 
She  was  a  picture  of  dainty  loveliness  in  a  laven 
der  gingham  dress,  made  with  a  full  skirt  and  a 
sjiirred  waist  and  big  leg-o' -mutton  sleeves.  A 
white  apron  was  tied  neatly  around  her  waist. 

Her  husband  came  in,  and  paused  to  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  kiss  her.  She  was  stirring 
something  on  the  stove,  holding  her  dress  aside 
with  one  hand. 

"It's  goin'  to  be  a  fine  Christmas,  Bmarine," 
he  said,  and  sighed  unconsciously.  There  was  a 
fistful  and  careworn  look  on  his  face. 

1 '  Beautiful ! "  said  Kmarine,  vivaciously.  '  'Go- 
in'  down-town,  Orville?" 

'  *  Yes.     Want  anything  ? ' ' 

"Why,  the  cranberries  ain't  come  yet.  I'm 
so  uneasy  about  'em.  They'd  ought  to  'a*  b'en 
stooed  long  ago.  I  like  'em  cooked  down  an' 
strained  to  a  jell.  I  don't  see  what  ails  them 
groc'rymen  !  Sh'u'd  think  they  c'u'd  get  around 
some  time  before  doomsday  !  Then,  I  want — here, 
you'd  best  set  it  down."  She  took  a  pencil  and 
a  slip  of  paper  from  a  shelf  over  the  table  and 
gave  them  to  him.  "Now,  let  me  see."  She 
commenced  stirring  again,  with  two  little  wrinkles 
between  her  brows.  "A  ha'f  a  pound  o'  citron;  a 

I23 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

ha'f  a  pound  o'  candied  peel ;  two  pounds  o* 
cur'uts;  two  pounds  o'  raisins — git  'em  stunned, 
Orville;  a  pound  o'  sooet — make  'em  give  you 
some  that  ain't  all  strings  !  A  box  o'  Norther' 
Spy  apples;  a  ha'f  a  dozen  lemons;  four-bits' 
worth  o'  walnuts  or  a'monds,  whichever 's  fresh 
est;  a  pint  o'  Puget  Sound  oysters  fer  the  dressin', 
an'  a  bunch  o'  cel'ry.  You  stop  by  an'  see  about 
the  turkey,  Orville  ;  an'  I  wish  you'd  run  in  's 
you  go  by  mother's  an'  tell  her  to  come  up  as 
soon  as  she  can.  She'd  ought  to  be  here  now." 

Her  husband  smiled  as  he  finished  the  list. 
"  You're  a  wonderful  housekeeper,  Emarine,"  he 
said. 

Then  his  face  grew  grave.  "  Got  a  present  fer 
your  mother  yet,  Emarine  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  long  ago.  I  got  'er  a  black  shawl 
down  t'  Charman's.  She's  b'en  wantin'  one." 

He  shuffled  his  feet  about  a  little.  "Unh- 
hunh.  Yuh — that  is — I  reckon  yuh  ain't  picked 
out  any  present  fer — fer  my  mother,  have  yuh, 
Emarine?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  cold  distinctness.  "  I 
ain't." 

There  was  a  silence.  Emarine  stirred  briskly. 
The  lines  grew  deeper  between  her  brows.  Two 
red  spots  came  into  her  cheeks.  * '  I  hope  the  rain 
ain't  spoilt  the  chrysyanthums,"  she  said  then, 
with  an  air  of  ridding  herself  of  a  disagreeable 
J24 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

Orville  made  no  answer.  He  moved  his  feet 
again  uneasily.  Presently  he  said:  "I  expect 
my  mother  needs  a  black  shawl,  too.  Seemed  to 
me  her'n  looked  kind  o'  rusty  at  church  Sun  Hay. 
Notice  it,  Kmarine  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Kmarine. 

"Seemed  to  me  she  was  gittin'  to  look  offul 
old.  Kmarine  " — his  voice  broke;  he  came  a  step 
nearer — "  it'll  be  the  first  Christmas  dinner  I  ever 
eat  without  my  mother." 

She  drew  back  and  looked  at  him.  He  knew 
the  look  that  flashed  into  her  eyes,  and  shrank 
from  it. 

"You  don't  have  to  eat  this'n'  without  'er, 
Orville  Parmer  !  You  go  an'  eat  your  dinner 
with  your  mother,  'f  you  want  !  I  can  get  along 
alone.  Are  you  goin'  to  order  them  things  ?  If 
you  ain't,  just  say  so,  an'  I'll  go  an'  do  't  my 
self!" 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  without  a  word. 

Mrs.  Palmer  took  the  saucepan  from  the  stove 
and  set  it  on  the  hearth.  Then  she  sat  down  and 
leaned  her  cheek  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and 
looked  steadily  out  of  the  window.  Her  eyelids 
trembled  closer  together.  Her  eyes  held  a  far- 
sighted  look.  She  saw  a  picture;  but  it  was  not 
the  picture  of  the  blue  reaches  of  sky,  and  the 
green  valley  cleft  by  its  silver-blue  river.  She 
saw  a  kitchen,  shabby,  compared  to  her  own, 

125 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKIJNG-DOWN 

scantily  furnished,  and  in  it  an  old,  white-haired 
woman  sitting  down  to  eat  her  Christmas  dinner 
alone. 

After  a  while  she  arose  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
"Well,  I  can't  help  it ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  If  I 
knuckled- down  to  her  this  time,  I'd  have  to  do  't 
ag'in.  She  might  just  as  well  get  ust  to  't,  first 
as  last.  I  wish  she  hadn't  got  to  lookin'  so  old 
an'  pitiful,  though,  a-settin'  there  in  front  o'  us 
in  church  Sunday  after  Sunday.  The  cords 
stand  out  in  her  neck  like  well-rope,  an'  her  chin 
keeps  a-quiv'rin'  so  1  I  can  see  Orville  a- watch- 
in'  her " 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  her  mother  en 
tered.  She  was  bristling  with  curiosity.  "Say, 
Kmarine!"  She  lowered  her  voice,  although 
there  was  no  one  to  hear.  "Where  d'  you  s'pose 
the  undertaker's  a-goin'  up  by  here  ?  Have  you 
hear  of  anybody " 

"No,"  said  Kmarine.  "Did  Orville  stop  by 
an'  tell  you  to  hurry  up  ?  " 

'fYes.  What's  the  matter  of  him?  Is  he 
sick?" 

« '  Not  as  I  know  of.     Why  ? ' ' 

"  He  looks  so.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  it's  one  o'  the 
Peterson  childern  where  the  undertaker's  a-goin' ! 
They've  all  got  the  quinsy  sore  throat." 

"  How  does  he  look?  I  don't  see  's  he  looks 
so  turrable." 

126 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"Why,  Kmarine  Farmer  !  Ev'rybody  in  town 
says  he  looks  so/  I  only  hope  they  don't  know 
what  ails  him  !  " 

"What  does  ail  him?"  cried  out  Kmarine, 
fiercely.  ' '  What  are  you  hintin'  at  ?  " 

"Well,  if  you  don't  know  what  ails  him, 
you'd  ort  to;  so  I'll  tell  you.  He's  dyin'  by 
inches  ever  sence  you  turned  his  mother  out  o' 
doors." 

Emarine  turned  white.  Sheet  lightning  played 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  you'd  ought  to  talk  about  my  turnin' 
her  out!"  she  burst  out,  furiously.  "After  you 
a-settin'  here  a-quar'1'n'  with  her  in  this  very 
kitchen,  an'  eggin'  me  on  !  Wa'n't  she  goin'  to 
turn  you  out  o'  your  own  daughter's  home? 
Wa'n't  that  what  I  turned  her  out  fer  ?  I  didn't 
turn  her  out,  anyhow  !  I  only  told  Orville  this 
house  wa'n't  big  enough  fer  his  mother  an'  me, 
an'  that  neither  o'  us  'n'd  knuckle-down,  so  he'd 
best  take  his  choice.  You'd  ought  to  talk  !  " 

"Well,  if  I  egged  you  on,  I'm  sorry  fer  't," 
said  Mrs.  Endey,  solemnly.  ' '  Ever  sence  that  fit 
o'  sickness  I  had  a  month  ago,  I've  feel  kind  o' 
old  an'  no  account  myself,  as  if  I'd  like  to  let  all 
holts  go,  an'  just  rest.  I  don't  spunk  up  like  I 
ust  to.  No,  he  didn't  go  to  Peterson's — he's 
gawn  right  on.  My  land  !  I  wonder  'f  it  ain't 
old  gran 'ma  Eliot;  she  had  a  bad  spell — no,  he 

127 


A.   POINT   OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

didn't  turn  that  corner.  I  can't  think  where  he's 
goin'  to  !" 

She  sat  down  with  a  sigh  of  defeat. 

A  smile  glimmered  palely  across  Emarine's 
face  and  was  gone.  "  Maybe  if  you'd  go  up  in 
the  antic  you  could  see  better,"  she  suggested, 
dryly. 

"Oh,  Kmarine,  here  comes  old  gran'ma  Eliot 
herself!  Run  an'  open  the  door  fer  'er.  She's 
limpin'  worse  'n  usual." 

Emarine  flew  to  the  door.  Grandma  Eliot  was 
one  of  the  few  people  she  loved.  She  was  large 
and  motherly.  She  wore  a  black  dress  and  shawl 
and  a  funny  bonnet,  with  a  frill  of  white  lace 
around  her  brow. 

Emarine's  face  softened  when  she  kissed  her. 
"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  tender. 

Even  Mrs.  Endey's  face  underwent  a  change. 
Usually  it  wore  a  look  of  doubt,  if  not  of  positive 
suspicion,  but  now  it  fairly  beamed.  She  shook 
hands  cordially  with  the  guest  and  led  her  to  a 
comfortable  chair. 

"I  know  your  rheumatiz  is  worse,"  she  said, 
cheerfully,  "  because  you're  limpin'  so.  Oh,  did 
you  see  the  undertaker  go  up  by  here  ?  We  can't 
think  where  he's  goin'  to.  D'  you  happen  to 
know?" 

"No,  I  don't;  an'  I  don't  want  to,  neither." 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

Mrs.  Eliot  laughed  comfortably.  "Mis'  Endey, 
you  don't  ketch  me  foo!in'  with  undertakers  till 
I  have  to."  She  sat  down  and  removed  her 
black  cotton  gloves.  "I'm  gettin'  to  that  age 
when  I  don't  care  much  where  undertakers  go  to 
so  long  's  they  let  me  alone.  Fixin'  fer  Christ 
mas  dinner,  Emarine  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Emarine  in  her  very  gen 
tlest  tone.  Her  mother  had  never  said  "  dear  " 
to  her,  and  the  sound  of  it  on  this  old  lady's  lips 
was  sweet.  "Won't  you  come  an'  take  dinner 
with  us?" 

The  old  lady  laughed  merrily.  "Oh,  dearie 
me,  dearie  me  !  You  don't  guess  my  son's  folks 
could  spare  me  now,  do  you?  I  spend  ev'ry 
Christmas  there.  They  most  carry  me  on  two 
chips.  My  son's  wife,  Sidonie,  she  nearly  runs 
her  feet  off  waitin'  on  me.  She  can't  do  enough 
fer  me.  My,  Mrs.  Endey,  you  don't  know  what 
a  comfort  a  daughter-in-law  is  when  you  get  old 
an'  feeble  !  " 

Emarine' s  face  turned  red.  She  went  to  the 
table  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  older  woman  ; 
but  her  mother's  sharp  eyes  observed  that  her  ears 
grew  scarlet. 

"An'  I  never  will,"  said  Mrs.  Endey,  grimly. 

"  You've  got  a  son-in-law,  though,  who's  worth 
a  whole  townful  of  most  son-in-laws.  Ht  was 
such  a  good  son,  too  ;  jest  worshipped  his  mother  ; 

129 


A  POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

couldn't  bear  her  out  o'  his  sight.  He  humored 
her  high  an'  low.  That's  jest  the  way  Sidonie 
does  with  me.  I'm  gettin'  cranky  's  I  get  older, 
an'  sometimes  I'm  reel  cross  an'  sassy  to  her ;  but 
she  jest  laffs  at  me,  an'  then  comes  an'  kisses  me, 
an'  I'm  all  right  ag'in.  It's  a  blessin'  right  from 
God  to  have  a  daughter-in-law  like  that. ' ' 

The  knife  in  Bmarine's  hand  slipped,  and  she 
uttered  a  little  cry. 

"Hurt  you?"  demanded  her  mother,  sternly. 

Hmarine  was  silent,  and  did  not  turn. 

"  Cut  you,  Emarine?  Why  don't  you  answer 
me?  Aigh?" 

"A  little,"  said  Emarine.  She  went  into  the 
pantry,  and  presently  returned  with  a  narrow  strip 
of  muslin  which  she  wound  around  her  finger. 

"  Well,  I  never  see  !  You  never  will  learn  any 
gumption  !  Why  don't  you,  look  what  you're 
about?  Now,  go  around  Christmas  with  your 
finger  all  tied  up  !" 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right  by  to-morrow,"  said 
Mrs.  Eliot,  cheerfully.  "Won't  it,  Emarine? 
Never  cry  over  spilt  milk,  Mrs.  Endey ;  it  makes 
a  body  get  wrinkles  too  fast.  O'  course  Orville's 
mother's  comin'  to  take  dinner  with  you,  Ema- 
rine." 

"Dear  me  !"  exclaimed  Emarine,  in  a  sudden 
fl  titter.  "I  don't  see  why  them  cranberries  don't 


130 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKLING-DOWN 

come  !  I  told  Orville  to  hurry  'em  up.  I'd  best 
make  the  floatin'  island  while  I  wait." 

"I  stopped  at  Orville's  mother's  as  I  came 
along." 

"How?"  Emarine  turned  in  a  startled  way 
from  the  table. 

' '  I  say,  I  stopped  at  Orville's  mother's  as  I  come 
along,  Emarine." 

"Oh!" 

"She  well?"  asked  Mrs.  Endey. 

"  No,  she  ain't ;  shakin'  like  she  had  the  Saint 
Vitus  dance.  She's  failed  harrable  lately.  She'd 
b'en  cryin';  her  eyes  was  all  swelled  up." 

There  was  quite  a  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Endey 
said— "What  she  b'en  cryin'  about?" 

"Why,  when  I  asked  her  she  jest  lafFed  kind  o' 
pitiful,  an'  said  :  *  Oh,  only  my  tornfoolishness, 
o'  course.'  Said  she  always  got  to  thinkin'  about 
other  Christmases.  But  I  cheered  her  up.  I 
told  her  what  a  good  time  I  always  had  at  my 
son's,  and  how  Sidonie  jest  couldn't  do  enough 
fer  me.  An'  I  told  her  to  think  what  a  nice  time 
she'd  have  here  't  Emarine' s  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Endey  smiled.     ' '  What  she  say  to  that  ?" 

"She  didn't  say  much.  I  could  see  she  was 
thankful,  though,  she  had  a  son's  to  go  to.  She 
said  she  pitied  all  poor  wretches  that  had  to  set 
out  their  Christmas  alone.  Poor  old  lady !  she 
ain't  got  much  spunk  left.  She's  all  broke  down. 


A   POINT  OF   KNUCKT.ING-pOWN 

But  I  cheered  her  up  some.  Sech  a  wishful  look 
took  holt  o'  her  when  I  pictchered  her  dinner  over 
here  at  Emarine's.  I  can't  seem  to  forget  it. 
Goodness  !  I  must  go.  I'm  on  my  way  to  Sido- 
nie's,  an'  she'll  be  comin'  after  me  if  I  ain't  on 
time." 

When  Mrs.  KHot  had  gone  limping  down  the 
path,  Mrs.  Endey  said:  "You  got  your  front 
room  red  up,  Emarine?" 

"  No  ;  I  ain't  had  time  to  red  up  anything." 
"Well,  I'll  do  it.     Where's  your  duster  at?" 
"  Behind  the  org'n.     You  can  get  out  the  wax 
cross  again.     Mis'  Dillon  was  here  with  all  her 
childern,  an'  I   had   to   hide   up  ev'ry thing.     I 
never  see  childern  like  her'  n.     She  lets '  em  handle 
things  so  !" 

Mrs.  Endey  went  into  the  "front  room"  and 
began  to  dust  the  organ.  She  was  something  of 
a  diplomat,  and  she  wished  to  be  alone  for  a  few 
minutes.  "  You  have  to  manage  Emarine  by 
contrairies,"  she  reflected.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  that  this  was  a  family  trait.  "I'm  off  til  sorry 
I  ever  egged  her  on  to  turnin'  Orville's  mother 
out  o'  doors,  but  who'd  'a'  thought  it  'u'd  break 
her  down  so?  She  ain't  told  a  soul  either.  I 
reckoned  she'd  talk  somethin'  offul  about  us,  but 
she  ain't  told  a  soul.  She's  kep'  a  stiff  upper  lip 
an'  told  folks  she  al'ays  expected  to  live  alone  when 
Orville  got  married.  Emarine's  all  worked  up. 


A   POINT  OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

I  believe  the  L,ord  hisself  must  'a'  sent  gran'ma 
Eliot  here  to  talk  like  an  angel  unawares.  I  bet 
she'd  go  an'  ask  Mis'  Farmer  over  here  to  dinner 
if  she  wa'n't  afraid  I'd  laff  at  her  fer  knucklin'- 
down.  I'll  have  to  aggravate  her." 

She  finished  dusting,  and  returned  to  the 
kitchen.  "I  wonder  what  gran'ma  Eliot  'u'd 
say  if  she  knew  you'd  turned  Orville's  mother 
out,  Emarine?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Emarine  was  at  the  table 
mixing  the  plum  pudding.  Her  back  was  to  her 
mother. 

"  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  about  bein'  sorry 
I  egged  you  on,  Emarine.  I'm  glad  you  turned 
her  out.  She'd  ort  to  be  turned  out." 

Emarine  put  a  handful  of  floured  raisins  into 
the  mixture  and  stirred  it  all  together  briskly. 

"  Gran'ma  Eliot  can  go  talkin'  about  her  daugh 
ter-in-law  Sidonie  all  she  wants,  Emarine.  You 
keep  a  stiff  upper  lip." 

"  I  can  'tend  to  my  own  affairs, "  said  Emarine, 
fiercely. 

"Well,  don't  flare  up  so.  Here  comes  Orville. 
I,and,  but  he  does  look  peakid  !" 

After  supper,  when  her  mother  had  gone  home 
for  the  night,  Emarine  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl. 

Her  husband  was  sitting  by  the  fireplace,  look 
ing  thoughtfully  at  the  bed  of  coals. 

133 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"I'm  goin'  out, ' '  she  said,  briefly.  ' '  You  keep 
the  fire  up." 

"  Why,  Bmarine,  its  dark.  Don't  choo  want  I 
sh'u'd  go  along?" 

"No  ;  you  keep  the  fire  up." 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  but  he  knew  from 
the  way  she  set  her  heels  down  that  remonstrance 
would  be  useless. 

"Don't  stay  long,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  ha 
bitual  tenderness.  He  loved  her  passionately,  in 
spite  of  the  lasting  hurt  she  had  given  him  when 
she  parted  him  from  his  mother.  It  was  a  hurt 
that  had  sunk  deeper  than  even  he  realized.  It 
lay  heavy  on  his  heart  day  and  night.  It  took 
the  blue  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  green  out  of  the 
grass,  and  the  gold  out  of  the  sunlight ;  it  took 
the  exaltation  and  the  rapture  out  of  his  tenderest 
moments  of  love. 

He  never  reproached  her,  he  never  really  blamed 
her ;  certainly  he  never  pitied  himself.  But  he  car 
ried  a  heavy  heart  around  with  him,  and  his  few 
smiles  were  joyless  things. 

For  the  trouble  he  blamed  only  himself.  He  had 
promised  Kmarine  solemnly  before  he  married  her 
that  if  there  were  any  "  knuckling-down  "  to  be 
done,  his  mother  should  be  the  one  to  do  it.  He 
had  made  the  promise  deliberately,  and  he  could 
no  more  have  broken  it  than  he  could  have 
changed  the  color  of  his  eyes.  When  bitter 

134 


A   POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

feeling  arises  between  two  relatives  by  marriage, 
it  is  the  one  who  stands  between  them  —  the  one 
who  is  bound  by  the  tenderest  ties  to  both  —  who 
has  the  real  suffering  to  bear,  who  is  torn  and 
tortured  until  life  holds  nothing  worth  the  hav 
ing. 

Orville  Palmer  was  the  one  who  stood  between. 
He  had  built  his  own  cross,  and  he  took  it  up  and 
bore  it  without  a  word. 

Kmarine  hurried  through  the  early  winter  dark 
until  she  came  to  the  small  and  poor  house  where 
her  husband's  mother  lived.  It  was  off  the  main- 
traveled  street. 

There  was  a  dim  light  in  the  kitchen  ;  the  cur 
tain  had  not  been  drawn.  Kmarine  paused  and 
looked  in.  The  sash  was  lifted  six  inches,  for  the 
night  was  warm,  and  the  sound  of  voices  came  to 
her  at  once.  Mrs.  Palmer  had  company. 

"It's  Miss  Presly,"  said  Bmarine,  resentfully, 
under  her  breath.  "  Old  gossip  !" 

"  —  goin'  to  have  a  fine  dinner,  I  hear,"  Miss 
Presly  was  saying.  ' '  Turkey  with  oyster  dressin' , 
an'  cranberries,  an'  mince  an'  pun'kinpie,  an'  reel 
plum  puddin'  with  brandy  poured  over  't  an'  set 
afire,  an'  wine  dip,  an'  nuts,  an'  raisins,  an'  wine 
itself  to  wind  up  on.  Emarine's  a  fine  cook.  She 
knows  how  to  get  up  a  dinner  that  makes  your 
mouth  water  to  think  about.  You  goin'  to  have  a 
spread,  Mis'  Partner?" 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

"Not  much  of  a  one,"  said  Orville's  mother. 
"  I  expected  to,  but  I  c'u'dn't  get  them  fall  pata- 
tas  sold  off.  I'll  have  to  keep  'em  till  spring  to 
git  any  kind  o'  price.  I  don't  care  much  about 
Christmas,  though" — her  chin  was  trembling, 
but  she  lifted  it  high.  "It's  silly  for  anybody 
but  childern  to  build  so  much  on  Christmas." 

Kmarine  opened  the  door  and  walked  in.  Mrs. 
Palmer  arose  slowly ,  grasping  the  back  of  her 
chair.  "Orville's  dead?"  she  said,  solemnly. 

Kmarine  laughed,  but  there  was  the  tenderness 
of  near  tears  in  her  voice.  "  Oh,  my,  no  !"  she 
said,  sitting  down.  "I  run  over  to  ask  you  to 
come  to  Christmas  dinner.  I  was  too  busy  all 
day  to  come  sooner.  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  great 
dinner,  an'  I've  cooked  ev'ry  single  thing  of  it 
myself!  I  want  to  show  you  what  a  fine  Christ 
mas  dinner  your  daughter- 'n-law  can  get  up. 
Dinner's  at  two,  an'  I  want  you  to  come  at  eleven. 
Will  you?" 

Mrs.  Palmer  had  sat  down,  weakly.  Trem 
bling  was  not  the  word  to  describe  the  feeling  that 
had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  was  shivering. 
She  wanted  to  fall  down  on  her  knees  and  put  her 
arms  around  her  son's  wife,  and  sob  out  all  her 
loneliness  and  heartache.  But  life  is  a  stage ; 
and  Miss  Presly  was  an  audience  not  to  be  ignored. 
So  Mrs.  Palmer  said  :  "Well,  I'll  be  reel  glad 
o  come,  ^marine.  It's  offul  kind  o'  yuh  to  think 

136 


A  POINT   OF   KNUCEXING-DOWN 

oft.  It  'u'd  'a'  be'n  lonesome  eatin'  here  all  by 
myself,  I  expect." 

Emarine  stood  up.  Her  heart  was  like  a  this 
tle-down.  Her  eyes  were  shining.  ' ( All  right, ' ' 
she  said  ;  "an'  I  want  that  you  sh'u'd  come  just 
at  eleven.  I  must  run  right  back  now.  Good 
night." 

"  Well,  I  declare  !"  said  Miss  Presly.  "That 
girl  gits  prettier  ev'ry  day  o'  her  life.  Why,  she 
just  looked  full  o' glame  to-night !" 


Orville  was  not  at  home  when  his  mother  ar 
rived  in  her  rusty  best  dress  and  shawl.  Mrs. 
Kndey  saw  her  coming.  She  gasped  out,  * '  Why, 
good  grieve  !  Here's  Mis'  Farmer,  Emarine  !" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Emarine,  calmly.  "I  ast 
her  to  dinner." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  shook  hands  with  her 
mother-in-law,  giving  her  mother  a  look  of  de 
fiance  that  almost  upset  that  lady's  gravity. 

"You  set  right  down,  Mother  Partner,  an'  let 
me  take  your  things.  Orville  don't  know  you're 
comin' ,  an'  I  just  want  to  see  his  face  when  he 
conies  in.  Here's  a  new  black  shawl  fer  your 
Christmas.  I  got  mother  one  just  like  it.  See 
what  nice  long  fringe  it's  got.  Oh,  my,  don't  go 
tocryin'!  Here  comes  Orville." 

She  stepped  aside  quickly.     When  her  husband 


A  POINT  OF  KNUCKUNG-DOWN 

entered  his  eyes  fell  instantly  on  "his  mother,  weep 
ing  childishly  over  the  new  shawl.  She  was  in 
the  old  splint  rocking-chair  with  the  high  back. 
"Mother!"  he  cried  ;  then  he  gave  a  frightened, 
tortured  glance  at  his  wife.  Kmarine  smiled  at 
him,  but  it  was  through  tears. 

* '  Bmarine  ast  me,  Orville  —  she  ast  me  to  din 
ner  o'  herself!  An'  she  give  me  this  shawl.  I'm 
—  cryin'  —  fer  — joy ' ' 

"I  ast  her  to  dinner,"  said  Kmarine,  "but  she 
ain't  ever  goin'  back  again.  She's  goin'  to  stay. 
I  expect  we've  both  had  enough  of  a  lesson  to 
do  us." 

Orville  did  not  speak.  He  fell  on  his  knees 
and  laid  his  head,  like  a  boy,  in  his  mother's  lap, 
and  reached  one  strong  but  trembling  arm  up  to 
his  wife's  waist,  drawing  her  down  to  him. 

Mrs.  Endey  got  up  and  went  to  rattling  things 
around  on  the  table  vigorously.  "  Well,  I  never 
see  sech  a  pack  o'  loonatics !"  she  exclaimed. 
1 '  Go  an'  burn  all  your  Christmas  dinner  up,  if  I 
don't  look  after  it !  Turncoats  !  I  expect  they'll 
both  be  fallin'  over  theirselves  to  knuckle-down 
to  each  other  from  now  on  !  I  never  see  !" 

But  there  was  something  in  her  eyes,  too,  that 
:;iade  them  beautiful. 


'38 


THE  CUTTIN'  OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


THK  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

"Lavin-ee!" 

''Well?" 

Mrs.  Vaiden  came  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  You  up  there?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  maw.     What  you  want  ?" 

"Somebody's  comin',"  said  Mrs.  Vaiden,  low 
ering  her  voice  to  a  tone  of  important  mystery. 

"I  guess  not  here,"  said  L,avinia,  lightly. 
She  sat  down  on  the  top  step  and  smiled  at  her 
mother. 

"Yes,  it  is  here,  too,"  retorted  Mrs.  Vaiden, 
with  some  irritation.  "If  you  couldn't  conter- 
dict  a  body  't  wouldn't  be  you  !  You're  just  like 
your  paw  !' '  She  paused,  and  then  added  :  ' '  It's 
a  man  a-foot.  He's  comin'  up  the  path  slow, 
a-stoppin'  to  look  at  the  flowers." 

"Maybe  it's  the  minister,"  said  the  girl,  still 
regarding  her  mother  with  a  good-natured,  teas 
ing  smile. 

"No,  it  ain't  the  minister,  either.  As  if  I 
didn't  know  the  minister  when  I  see  him  !  You 
do  aggravate  me  so  !  It's  a  young  fello',  an'  he's 
all  dressed  up.  You'll  have  to  go  to  the  door." 

"Oh,  maw  !"  cried  Lavinia,  reproachfully.  "I 
just  can't !  In  this  short  dress  ?" 

141 


r 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

Flie  stood  up,  with  a  look  of  dismay,  and  be 
gan  pulling  nervously  at  her  fresh  gingham  skirt. 
It  was  short,  showing  very  prettily-arched  insteps 
and  delicate  ankles. 

"Well,  you  just  can,  an*  haf  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Vaiden,  shortly.  "  I've  told  you  often  enough 
to  put  a  ruffle  on  the  bottom  o*  that  dress,  an' 
I'm  glad  you're  caught.  Mebbe  you'll  do's  I 
tell  you  after  this— " 

She  started  guiltily  as  a  loud  rap  sounded  upon 
the  door  behind  her,  and  began  to  tiptoe  heavily 
down  the  hall  toward  the  kitchen.  The  girl 
looked  after  her  in  mingled  amusement  and  cha 
grin.  Then  she  leaned  forward  slightly,  drawing 
the  skirt  back  closely  on  both  sides,  and  looked  at 
her  feet,  with  her  head  turned  on  one  side  like  a 
bird.  When  the  cessation  of  her  mother's  labored 
breathing  announced  silently  that  she  had  reached 
the  kitchen  in  safety,  L,avinia  shrugged  her  beau 
tiful  shoulders  —  which  no  gown  could  conceal 
—  and  opened  the  door.  A  young  man  in  a  light 
traveling-suit  stood  before  her.  In  his  hand  was 
a  bunch  of  her  own  sweet-peas. 

At  sight  of  her  he  whisked  off  his  hat  in  a 
way  that  brought  a  lovely  color  to  her  face  and 
throat.  For  a  little  while  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
not  going  to  say  or  do  anything  but  just  look  at 
her.  She  was  well  worth  looking  at.  She  had 
the  rare  beauty  of  velvet  eyes  of  a  reddish-brown 
142 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

color,  hair  wavy  and  brown,  with  red  glints  in  it, 
and  a  clear  complexion,  unfreckled  and  of  exqui 
site  coloring. 

lyavinia's  eyes  went  to  the  sweet-peas,  and  then, 
with  a  deeper  blush  under  them,  to  his  face. 

"  Won't  you  come  in?"  she  said. 

"Why,  yes,  if  you'll  let  me."  The  young 
man  smiled,  and  I^avinia  found  her  lips  and  eyes 
responding,  in  all  the  lightness  of  youth  and  a 
clear  conscience. 

"I  couldn't  help  taking  some  of  your  sweet- 
peas,"  he  said,  following  her  into  the  parlor.  It 
was  a  large,  solemn-looking  room.  The  blinds 
were  lowered  over  the  windows,  but  the  girl  raised 
one  slightly,  letting  a  splash  of  pale  autumnal  sun 
shine  flicker  across  the  hit-and-miss  rag  carpet. 
There  was  an  organ  in  one  corner  and  a  hair 
cloth  sofa  in  another.  Bight  slender-legged 
hair-cloth  chairs  were  placed  at  severely  equal 
distances  around  the  room,  their  backs  resting 
firmly  against  the  walls.  All  tipped  forward 
slightly,  their  front  legs  being  somewhat  shorter 
than  the  others.  On  the  back  of  each  was  a 
small,  square  crocheted  tidy.  There  were  some 
family  portraits  on  the  walls,  in  oval  gilt  frames  ; 
and  there  was  a  large  picture  of  George  Wash 
ington  and  family,  on  their  stateliest  behavior  ; 
another,  named  in  large  letters  "  The  Journey  of 
I<ife,"  of  an  uncommonly  roomy  row-boat  con- 

143 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

taining  at  least  a  dozen  persons,  who  were  sup 
posed  to  represent  all  ages  from 'the  cradle  to 
the  grave ;  in  the  wide,  white  margin  beneath 
this  picture  were  two  verses  of  beautiful,  des 
criptive  poetry,  and  in  one  corner  appeared,  with 
apparent  irrelevancy,  the  name  of  an  illustrated 
newspaper.  There  was  also  a  chromo  of  a  scantily- 
attired  woman  clinging  to  a  cross  which  was  set 
in  the  midst  of  dashing  sea- waves ;  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  photograph,  in  a  black  cloth  frame, 
of  flowers  —  made  into  harps,  crosses,  anchors 
and  hearts  —  which  had  been  sent  at  some  time 
of  bereavement  by  sympathetic  but  misguided 
friends.  A  marble-topped  centre-table  held  a 
large  plush  album,  a  scrap  book,  a  book  of 
autographs,  a  lamp  with  a  pale-green  shade,  and 
a  glass  case  containing  a  feather- wreath. 

"Oh,  we've  got  lots  of  sweet-peas,"  said 
L,avinia,  adjusting  the  blind  carefully.  Then  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  May  I  see  Mrs.  Vaiden?"  he  asked,  easily. 

"  She's  —  busy,"  said  lyavinia,  with  a  look  of 
embarrassment.  "  But  I'll  see — " 

"Oh,  don't,"  interrupted  the  young  man 
lightly.  ' '  They  told  me  at  the  post-office  she  took 
boarders  sometimes,  and  I  came  to  see  if  there 
was  a  chance  for  me."  He  handed  a  card  to  the 
girl  with  an  air  of  not  knowing  that  he  was  doing 
it.  Her  very  eyelids  seemed  to  blush  as  she  looked 
144 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

at  it  and  read  the  name  —  Mr.  C.  Daun  Diller. 
' '  I  am  writing  up  the  Puget  Sound  country  for  a 
New  York  paper,  and  I  should  like  to  make  rny 
headquarters  here  at  Whatcom,  but  I  can't  stand 
the  hotels  in  your  new  towns.  It's  the  most  amaz 
ing  thing  !"  he  went  on,  smiling  at  her  as  she 
stood  twisting  the  card  in  her  fingers,  not  know 
ing  exactly  what  to  do  with  it.  "You  go  to 
sleep  at  night  in  a  Puget  Sound  village  with  the 
fronts  of  the  stores  painted  green,  blue  and  red, 
spasmodic  patches  of  sidewalk  here  and  there, 
dust  ankle  deep,  and  no  street-lights  —  and  you 
wake  in  the  morning  in  a  city  !  A  city  with  fine 
stone  blocks  and  residences,  stone  pavements, 
electric  lights  and  railways,  gas,  splendid  water 
works," — he  was  checking  off  now,  excitedly,  on 
his  fingers, — "sewerage,  big  mills,  factories,  can 
neries,  public  schools  that  would  make  the  Bast 
stare,  churches,  libraries" — he  stopped  abruptly, 
and,  dropping  his  arms  limply  to  his  sides,  added 
— "  and  not  a  hotel  !  Not  a  comfortable  bed  or 
a  good  meal  to  be  had  for  love  or  money  !" 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  said  I^avinia,  reluctantly. 
"But  you  can't  expect  us  to  get  everything  all 
at  onct.  Why,  Whatcom' s  boom  only  started 
in  six  months  ago." 

Mr.  C.  Daun  Diller  looked  amused.  "Oh,  if 
it  were  this  town  only,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on 
one  of  the  hair  clotb  chairs  and  feeling  himself 

MS 


CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


slide  gently  forward,  "  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned 
it.  But  the  truth  is,  there  are  only  three  decent 
hotels  in  the  whole  Puget  Sound  country.  But 
I  know"  —  here  he  smiled  at  her  again  —  "that 
it's  not  safe  to  breathe  a  word  against  Puget  Sound 
to  a  Puget-Sounder.  " 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  the  girl,  responding  to  the 
smile  and  the  respectfully  bantering  tone.  Then 
she  moved  to  the  door.  "Well,  I'll  see  what 
maw  says  to  it,"  she  said,  and  vanished. 

Mr.  C.  Daun  Diller  stood  up  and  pushed  his 
hands  down  into  his  pockets,  whistling  softly. 
He  walked  over  to  the  organ  and  looked  at  the 
music.  There  were  three  large  books  :  *  *  The 
Home  Circle,"  "  The  Golden  Chord,"  and  "The 
Family  Treasure;"  a  *  '  simplified  '  '  copy  of  '  'The 
Maiden's  Prayer,"  and  a  book  of  "Gospel 
Songs." 

The  young  man  smiled. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  a 
disparaging  remark  made  by  some  one  else, 
"she's  about  the  handsomest  girl  I  ever  saw. 
I'm  getting  right  down  anxious  to  see  myself 
what  *  maw  '  will  '  say  to  it.'  " 

After  a  long  while  Mrs.  Vaiden  appeared  in  a 
crisply-starched  gingham  dress  and  a  company 
manner  —  both  of  which  had  been  freshly  put  on 
for  the  occasion.  Mr.  Diller  found  her  rather 
painfully  polite,  and  he  began  to  wonder,  after 

146 


THK  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART 


paying  his  first  week's  board,  whether  he  co... 
endure  two  or  three  months  of  her;  but  he  was 
quite,  quite  sure  that  he  could  endure  a  full  year 
of  the  daughter. 

A  couple  of  evenings  later  he  was  sitting  by 
the  window  in  his  quaint  but  exquisitely  neat 
room,  writing,  when  a  light  rap  carne  upon  his 
door.  Upon  opening  it  he  found  L,avinia  stand 
ing,  bashfully,  a  few  steps  away.  There  was  a 
picturesque,  broad-brimmed  hat  set  coquettishly 
on  her  splendid  hair. 

"Maw  wanted  I  sh'u'd  ask  you  if  you'd  like 
to  see  an  Indian  canoe-race,"  she  said. 

"  Would  I  ?  "  he  ejaculated,  getting  into  a  great 
excitement  at  once.  "Well,  I  should  say  so! 
Awfully  good  of  your  mother  to  think  —  but  where 
is  it  —  when  is  it  ?  How  can  I  see  it  ?  " 

"It's  down  by  the  viaduck  —  right  now,"  said 
Lavinia.  Then  she  added,  shyly,  pretending  to 
be  deeply  engrossed  with  her  glove:  "I'm  just 
grin'-." 

"Oh,  are  you?"  said  Diller,  seizing  his  hat 
and  stick  and  coming  eagerly  out  to  her.  '  'And 
may  I  go  with  you  ?  Will  you  take  me  in  hand  ? 
I  haven't  the  ghost  of  an  idea  where  the  viaduct 
is." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'll  show  you,"  she  said,  with  a  glad 
little  laugh,  and  they  went  swiftly  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  sweet  evening. 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  EART  WINN 

"You  know,"  she  said,  as  he  opened  the  gate 
for  her  with  a  deference  to  which  she  was  not  ac 
customed,  and  which  gave  her  a  thrill  of  innocent 
exultation,  "the  Alaska  Indians  are  just  comin' 
back  from  hop-pickin'  down  around  Puyallup  an' 
Yakima  an'  Seattle,  an'  they  alwus  stop  here  an' 
have  races  with  the  Dummies  an'  the  Nook- 
sacks." 

Mr.  Diller  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  wouldn't  have 
missed  this  for  anything — not  for  anything  I  can 
think  of.  And  yet  I  should  if  it  hadn't  been 
for" — he  hesitated,  and  then  added — "your 
mother."  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and 
laughed,  very  foolishly  and  happily. 

The  sun  was  setting — moving  slowly,  scarlet 
and  of  dazzling  brilliancy,  down  the  western  sky, 
which  shaded  rapidly  from  pale  blue  to  salmon,  and 
from  salmon  to  palest  pea-green.  Beneath,  su 
perbly  motionless,  at  full  tide,  the  sound  stretched 
mile  on  mile  away  to  lyummi  peninsula,  whose 
hills  the  sun  now  touched — every  fir-tree  on  those 
noble  crests  standing  out  against  that  burnished 
background.  A  broad,  unbroken  path  of  gold 
stretched  from  shore  to  shore.  Some  sea-gulls 
were  circling  in  endless,  silvery  rings  through  the 
amethystine  haze  between  sea  and  sky.  The  old, 
rotten  pier  running  a  mile  out  to  sea  shone  like  a 
strip  of  gold  above  the  deep  blue  water.  It  was 
148 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

crowded  with  people,  indifferent  to  danger  in  their 
eagerness  to  see  the  races.  Indeed,  there  seemed 
to  be  people  everywhere  ;  on  the  high  banks,  the 
piers,  and  the  mills  scattered  over  the  tide-flats, 
and  out  in  row  boats.  Two  brass  bands  were 
playing  stirring  strains  alternately.  There  was 
much  excitement — much  shouting,  hurrying,  run 
ning.  The  crowd  kept  swaying  from  the  viaduct 
over  to  the  pier,  and  from  the  pier  back  to  the 
viaduct.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  quite  sure  where 
the  start  would  be  ;  even  the  three  judges,  when 
asked,  yelled  back,  as  they  clambered  down  to 
their  row-boat:  "We  don't  know.  Wait  and 
see!" 

"What  accommodating  persons,"  said  Mr. 
Diller,  cheerfully.  "Shall  we  go  over  to  the 
pier?  The  tide  seems  to  be  running  that  way." 

"Oh,  the  tide's  not  running  now,"  said  L,a- 
vinia.  "It's  full." 

Diller  looked  amused.  "  I  meant  the  people," 
he  said. 

The  girl  laughed  and  looked  around  on  the 
pushing  crowd.  "I  guess  we'd  best  stop  right 
here  on  the  viaduck  ;  here's  just  where  they 
started  last  year  an'  the  year  before.  Oh,  see, 
here's  the  Alaskas  camped  pretty  near  under  us  !" 

As  she  lifted  her  voice  a  little  Diller  saw  a 
young  man  standing  near  start  and  turn  toward 
her  with  a  glad  look  of  recognition  ;  but  at  once 

149 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

his  glance  rested  on  Diller,  and  his  expression 
changed  to  a  kind  of  puzzled  bewilderment.  The 
girl  was  leaning  over  the  railing  and  did  not  see 
him,  but  he  never  took  his  eyes  away  from  her 
and  Diller. 

There  was  a  long  wait,  but  the  crowd  did  not 
lose  its  patience  or  its  good  humor.  There  was 
considerable  betting  going  on,  and  there  was  the 
same  exciting  uncertainty  about  the  start.  The 
sun  went  down  and  a  bank  of  apricot-colored 
clouds  piled  low  over  the  snow  crest  of  Mount 
Baker  in  the  Kast.  The  pier  darkened  and  tke 
path  of  gold  faded,  but  splashes  of  scarlet  still 
lingered  on  the  blue  water.  A  chill,  sweet  wind 
started  up  suddenly,  and  some  of  the  girl's  bronze 
curls  got  loose  about  her  white  temples.  Diller 
put  her  wrap  around  her  carefully,  and  she  smiled 
up  at  him  deliciously.  Then  she  cried  oufc. 
4 'Oh,  they're  gettin'  into  the  boat!  They're 
goin'  to  start.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !"  and  struck  he* 
two  hands  together  gleefully,  like  a  child. 

The  long,  narrow,  richly- painted  and  carven 
canoe  slid  down  gracefully  into  the  water.  Bleven 
tall,  supple  Alaskan  Indians,  bare  to  the  wais*, 
leaped  lightly  to  their  places.  They  sat  erect, 
close  to  the  sides  of  the  boat,  holding  their  short 
paddles  perpendicularly.  At  a  signal  the  paddles 
shot  straight  down  into  the  water,  and,  with  a 
swift,  magnificent  straining  and  swelling  of 


CUTTIN'-  OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


muscles  in  the  powerful  bronze  arms  and  bodies, 
were  pushed  backward  and  withdrawn  in  light 
ning  strokes.  The  canoe  flashed  under  the  via 
duct  and  appeared  on  the  other  side,  and  a  great 
shout  belched  from  thousands  of  throats.  From 
camping-places  farther  up  the  shore  the  other 
boats  darted  out  into  the  water  and  headed  for 
the  viaduct. 

"Oh,  good!  good!"  cried  Lavinia  in  a  very 
ecstasy  of  excitement.  "They're  goin'  to  start 
right  under  us.  We're  just  in  the  place  !" 

"Twenty  dollars  on  the  Nooksacks  !"  yelled  a 
blear-eyed  man  in  a  carriage.  '  '  Twenty  !  Twenty 
ag'inst  ten  on  the  Nooksacks  !" 

The  band  burst  into  "  Hail,  Columbia  !"  with 
beautiful  irrelevancy.  The  crowd  came  surging 
back  from  the  pier.  Diller  was  excited,  too.  His 
face  was  flushed  and  he  was  breathing  heavily. 
"Who'll  you  bet  on?"  he  asked,  laughing,  and 
thinking,  even  at  that  moment,  how  ravishingly 
lovely  she  was  with  that  glow  on  her  face  and 
the  loose  curls  blowing  about  her  face  and  throat. 

"Oh,  the  Alaskas  /"  cried  the  girl,  striking  lit 
tle  blows  of  impatience  on  the  railing  with  her 
soft  fists.  "They're  so  tall  an'  fine-lookin'! 
They're  so  strong  an'  grand  !  Look  at  their 
muscles  —  just  like  ropes!  Oh,  I'll  bet  on  the 
Alaskas  !  I  love  tall  men  !" 

"  Do  you?"  said  Diller.     "I'm  tall." 


THK  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  again  and 
laughed.  Then  a  voice  spoke  over  their  shoul 
ders —  a  kind,  patient  voice.  "Oh,  l,aviny,"  it 
said  ;  "  I  wouldn't  bet  if  I  was  you." 

L,avinia  gave  a  little  scream.  Both  turned  in 
stantly.  The  young  man  who  had  been  watch 
ing  them  stood  close  to  them.  He  wore  working- 
clothes  —  a  flannel  shirt  and  [_cheap-faded  trousers 
and  coat.  He  had  a  good,  strong,  honest  face, 
and  there  was  a  tenderness  in  the  look  he  bent  on 
the  girl  that  struck  Diller  as  being  almost  pathetic. 

The  glow  in  L,avinia's  face  turned  to  the  scarlet 
of  the  sunset. 

<>:<9^/"  she  said,  embarrassedly.  "That  you, 
Bart?  I  didn't  know  you  was  back." 

"  I  just  got  back, ' '  he  replied,  briefly.  ' '  I  got 
to  go  back  again  in  the  mornin'.  I  was  just  on 
my  way  up  to  your  house.  I  guess  I'll  go  on. 
I'm  tired,  an'  I've  seen  lots  o'  c'noe  races."  He 
looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"You  go  on  up,  then.  Maw  an'  paw's  at  home, 
an'  I'll  come  as  soon  's  the  race  's  over." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  with  a  little  drop  in  his 
voice,  and  walked  away. 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  I^avinia.  "We're  missin' 
the  start,  ain't  we?" 

The  cano^j  were  lying  side  by  side,  waiting  for 
the  signal.  Kvery  Indian  was  bent  forward, 

152 


THE   CUT-IN' -OUT   OF  BART  WINN 

holding  his  paddle  suspended  above  the  water  In 
both  hands.  There  was  what  might  be  termed  a 
rigid  suppleness  in  the  attitude.  The  dark  out 
lines  of  the  paddles  showed  clearly  in  the  water, 
which  had  turned  yellow  as  brass.  Suddenly  the 
band  ceased  playing  and  the  signal  rang  across 
the  sunset.  Thirty-three  paddles  shot  into  the 
water,  working  with  the  swift  regularity  of  piston- 
rods  in  powerful  engines.  The  crowds  cheered 
and  yelled.  The  canoes  did  not  flash  or  glide 
now,  but  literally  plowed  and  plunged  through 
the  water,  which  boiled  and  seethed  behind  them 
in  white,  bubbled  foam  that  at  times  completely 
hid  the  bronze  figures  from  sight.  There  was  no 
shouting  now,  but  tense,  breathless  excitement. 
People  clung  motionless,  in  dangerous  places  and 
stared  with  straining  eyes,  under  bent  brows,  after 
the  leaping  canoes.  The  betting  had  been  high. 
The  fierce,  rhythmic  strokes  of  the  paddles  made  a 
noise  that  was  like  the  rapid  pumping  of  a  great 
ram.  To  Diller,  who  stood,  pale,  with  com 
pressed  lips,  it  sounded  like  the  frantic  heart-beat  of 
a  nation  in  passionate  riot.  Mingled  with  it  was 
a  noise  that,  once  heard,  cannot  be  forgotten  —  a 
weird,  guttural  chanting  on  one  tone,  that  yet 
seemed  to  hold  a  windy,  musical  note  ;  a  sound, 
regular,  and  rhythmic  as  the  paddle-strokes,  that 
came  from  deep  in  the  breasts  of  the  rigidly  sway 
ing  Indians  and  found  utterance  through  locked 
teeth. 


CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


A  mile  out  a  railroad  crossed  the  tide-lands, 
a»d  this  was  the  turning  point.  The  Nooksacks 
made  it  first,  closely  followed  by  the  Alaskans, 
and  then,  amid  wild  cheering,  the  three  canoes 
headed  for  the  viaduct.  Faster  and  faster  worked 
those  powerful  arms  ;  the  paddles  whizzed  more 
fiercely  through  the  air  ;  the  water  spurted  in 
white  sheets  behind  ;  the  canoes  bounded,  length 
ion  length,  out  of  the  water  ;  and  louder  and  faster 
the  guttural  chant  beat  time.  The  Alaskans  and 
the  Nooksacks  were  coming  in  together,  carven 
prow  to  carven  prow,  and  the  excitement  was  ter 
rific.  Nearer  and  nearer,  neither  gaining,  they 
came.  Then,  suddenly,  there  burst  a  mad  yell  of 
triumph,  and  the  Alaskan  boat  arose  from  the 
water  and  leaped  almost  its  full  length  ahead  of 
the  Nooksack's  ;  and  amidst  waving  hats  and 
handkerchiefs,  and  almost  frantic  cheering  —  the 
race  was  won. 

"By  the  eternal!"  said  Diller,  beginning  to 
breathe  again  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow.  '  '  If  that  isn't  worth  crossing  the  plains 
to  see{  I  don't  know  what  is!"  But  his  com 
panion  did  not  hear.  She  was  alternately  wav 
ing  her  kerchief  to  the  victors  and  pounding  her 
small  fists  on  the  railing  in  an  ecstasy  of  triumph, 


154 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


''Well?" 

'  '  You  come  right  down  hyeer  an'  help  me 
em'ty  this  rench  in'  -water.  I'd  like  to  know 
what's  got  into  you  !  A-stayin'  up-stairs  half  your 
time,  an'  just  a-mopin'  around  when  you  are 
down.  You  ain't  b'en  worth  your  salt  lately  !" 

The  girl  came  into  the  kitchen  slowly.  *  '  What 
you  jawin'  about  now,  maw?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"I'll  show  you  what  I'm  a-jawin'  about,  as 
you  call  it.  Take  holt  o'  this  tub  an'  help  me 
em'ty  this  renchin'  -water." 

4  'Well,  don't  holler  so;  Mr.  Diller  '11  hear 
you." 

"I  don't  care  'f  he  does  hear  me.  I  can  give 
him  his  come-up'ans  if  he  goes  to  foolin'  around, 
listenin'.  I  don't  care  'f  he  does  write  for  a 
paper  in  New  York  !  You've  got  to  take  holt  o' 
the  work  more'n  you've  b'en  lately.  A-traipsin' 
around  all  over  the  country  with  him,  a-showin' 
him  things  to  write  about  an'  make  fun  of!  I 
sh'u'd  think  Bart  Winn  had  just  about  got 
enough  of  it." 

"I  wish  you'd  keep  still  about  Bart  Winn," 
said  L,avinia,  impatiently. 

"Well,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  keep  still  about  him." 
Mrs.  Vaiden  poured  the  dish-water  into  the  sink 
And  passed  the  dish-cloth  round  and  round  the 
pan,  inside  and  outside  with  mechanical  care,  be- 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

fore  she  opened  the  back  door  and  hung  it  out  on 
the  side  of  the  house.  "  I  guess  I  don't  haf  to 
ask.  you  when  I  want  to  talk.  There  you  was  — 
gone  all  day  yeste'day  a-huntin'  star-fish,  an'  that 
renchin' -water  a-settin'  there  a-ruinin'  that  tub 
because  I  couldn't  em'ty  it  all  myself.  Just  as 
if  he  never  saw  star-fish  where  he  come  from. 
An'  then  to-day — -b'en  gone  all  the  mornin' 
a-ketchin'  crabs  !  How  many  crabs  'd  you  ketch, 
I'd  like  to  know  I'1 

"We  didn't  ketch  many/*  said  Lavinia,  with 
a  soft,  aggravating  laugh.  "The  water  wa'n't 
clear  enough  to  see  'em." 

"  No,  I  guess  the  water  wa'n't  clear  enough  to 
see  'em  !"  The  rinsing- water  had  been  emptied, 
and  Mrs.  Vaiden  was  industriously  wiping  the 
tub.  "  I've  got  all  the  star-fishin'  an'  the  crab- 
ketchin'  I  want,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  that  young 
man  that  he  can  go  some'ers  else  for  his  board. 
He's  b'en  here  a  month,  an'  he's  just  about  made 
a  fool  o'  you.  Pret'  soon  you'll  be  a-thinkin' 
you're  too  good  for  Bart  Winn." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Bart  Winn's  honest  voice  in 
the  doorway;  "I  guess  L,aviny  won't  never  be 
a-thinkin'  that." 

"Mercy!"  cried  Mrs.  Vaiden,  starting  and 
coloring  guiltily.  ' '  That  you  ?  How  you  scairt 
me  !  I'm  all  of  a-trimble." 

Bart  advanced  to  Lavinia  and  kissed  her  with 

•56 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

much  tenderness  ;  but  instead  of  blushing,  she 
paled. 

"When  'd  you  come?"  she  asked,  briefly, 
drawing  away,  while  her  mother,  muttering  some 
thing  about  the  sour  cream  and  the  spring-house, 
went  out  discreetly. 

"This  mornin',"  said  Bart.  "I'm  a-goin'  to 
stay  home  now." 

The  girl  sat  down,  taking  a  pan  of  potatoes  on 
her  lap.  "I  wonder  where  the  case-knife  is," 
she  said,  helplessly. 

"  I'll  get  it,"  said  Bart,  running  into  the  pan 
try  and  returning  with  the  knife.  "  I  love  to 
wait  on  you,  Laviny,"  he  added,  with  shining 
eyes.  "  I  guess  I'll  get  to  wait  on  you  a  sight, 
now.  I  see  your  paw  's  I  come  up  an'  he  said 
as  how  I  could  board  hyeer.  I'll  do  the  shores 
for  you  —  an'  glad  to.  An',  oh,  I^aviny !  I 
'most  forgot.  I  spoke  for  a  buggy  's  I  come  up, 
so's  I  can  take  you  a-ridin'  to-night." 

"I  guess  I  can't  go,"  said  lyavinia,  holding 
her  head  down  and  paring  potatoes  as  if  her  life 
depended  upon  getting  the  skins  off. 

"  You  can't  ?     Why  can't  you  ?" 

"  I — why,  I'm  goin'  a  salmon-spearin'  up  at 
Squalicum  Creek,  I  guess.  Salmon's  a-runnin' 
like  everything  now.  'Most  half  the  town  goes 
there  soon  's  it  gets  dark." 

"That  a  fact?"  said  Bart,  shifting  from  one 


CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


foot  to  the  other  and  looking  interested.  "I 
want  to  know  !  Well  '  '  —  his  face  brightened  — 
"I'll  go  down  an'  tell  'em  I'll  take  the  rig  to 
morro'  night,  an'  I'll  go  a-spearin'  with  you. 
Right  down  in  front  o'  Eldridge's?" 

"Yes."  A  pulse  began  thumping  violently  in 
the  girl's  throat.  Her  eyelids  got  so  heavy  she 
could  not  lift  them.  "I  guess  —  that  is,  I  — 
why,  you  see,  Bart,  I  got  comp'ny." 

"Well,  I  guess  the  girls  won't  object  to  my 
goin'  along  o'  you." 

"It  ain't  girls,"  said  I^avinia,  desperately. 
"It's  —  a  —  it's  Mr.  Diller;  the  gentleman  that 
boards  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Bart,  slowly.  Then  there  was  a 
most  trying  silence,  during  which  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  and  the  beating  of  her  own  heart  were 
the  only  sounds  l,avinia  heard.  At  last  she  said, 
feebly  :  *  *  You  see  he  writes  for  a  New  York 
newspaper  —  one  o'  the  big  ones.  He's  a-writin' 
up  the  whole  Puget  Sound  country.  An'  he 
don't  know  just  what  he'd  ort  to  see,  nor  just 
how  to  see  it,  unless  somebody  shows  him  about 
—  an'  I've  b'en  a-showin'  him." 

"Oh  !"  said  Bart  again,  but  quite  in  another 
tone,  quite  cheerfully.  "  That's  it,  is  't,  Laviny  ? 
Well,  that's  all  right.  But  I'll  be  hanged  if  you 
didn't  take  my  breath  away  for  a  minute.  I 
thought  you  meant  —  L,aviny  !  "  —  a  sudden  seri- 

158 


CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


ousness  came  into  his  tone  and  look  —  "I  guess 
you  don't  know  how  much  I  think  o'  you.  My 
heart's  just  set  on  you,  my  girl  —  my  whole  life's 
wrapped  up  in  you."  He  paused,  but  L^vinia 
did  not  speak  or  look  at  him,  and  he  added,  very 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  —  "  I  reckon  it  'u'd  just 
about  kill  me,  'f  anything  happened  to  you." 

"I  guess  nothin'  's  a-goin'  to  happen."  She 
dropped  one  potato  into  a  pan  of  cold  water  and 
took  up  another. 

"  No,  I  guess  not."  He  took  on  a  lighter  tone. 
"  But  I'll  tell  you  what,  Laviny  !  If  that's  all, 
he  ain't  comp'ny  at  all  ;  so  you  can  just  tell  him 
I'm  a-goin',  too."  He  came  closer  and  laid  a  large 
but  very  gentle  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "You 
might  even  tell  him  I've  got  a  right  to  go,  L,a- 
viny." 

The  girl  shrank,  and  glanced  nervously  at  the 
door. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  do  that,  Bart.  After  his 
arrangin'  to  go,  an'  a-hirin'  the  skiff  hisself.  / 
don't  know  but  what  he's  got  somebody  else  to  go 
along  of  us." 

4  'Why,  does  he  ever?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  recollect  that  he  ever  has  ;  but 
then  he  might  of,  this  time,  I  say,  for  all  I 
know.'* 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  the  big  hand 
patted  the  girl's  shoulder  affectionately  and  the 

159 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

honest  eyes  bent  on  her  the  look  of  patient  tender* 
ness  that  Diller  had  considered  pathetic. 

"All  right,  lyaviny  ;  you  go  along  of  him,  just 
by  yourself,  an'  I'll  stop  home  with  your  paw  an' 
3'our  maw.  I  want  you  to  know,  my  girl,  that  I 
trust  you,  an'  believe  every  word  you  say  to  me. 
I  ain't  even  thought  o'  much  else  besides  you 
ever  sence  I  saw  you  first  time  at  the  liberry  so 
ciable,  an'  I  won't  ever  think  o'  much  else,  I 
don't  care  what  happens.  Bein'  afraid  to  trust  a 
body  's  a  poor  way  to  show  how  much  you  think 
about  'em,  is  my  religion  ;  so  you  go  an'  have  a 
good  time,  an'  don't  you  worry  about  me."  He 
tucked  one  of  her  runaway  curls  behind  her  ear 
awkwardly.  "I'll  slip  down  to  the  liv'ry  stable 
now,  an'  tell  'em  about  the  rig." 

"All  right,"  said  I^avinia. 

Her  mother  came  in  one  door,  after  a  precau 
tionary  scraping  of  her  feet  and  an  alarming 
paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  looked  rather  disap 
pointed  to  see  Bart  going  out  at  the  other,  and  to 
realize  that  her  modest  warnings  had  been  thrown 
away.  "  Well,  'f  I  ever  !  ' '  she  exclaimed.  "  L,a- 
viny  Vaiden,  whatever  makes  you  look  so  ?  You 
look  just  's  if  you'd  seen  a  spook !  You're  a 
kind  'o  yellow-gray — just  like  you  had  the 
ja'ndice  !  What  ails  you  ?  " 

4 '  I  got  a  headache, ' '  said  the  girl ;  and  then, 
somehow,  the  pan  slid  down  off  her  lap,  and  the 
160 


THE  CUTTIN'-  OUT  OF  BART  WIXN 

potatoes  and  the  parings  went  rolling  and  sprawl 
ing  all  over  the  floor  ;  Lavinia's  head  went  down 
suddenly  on  the  table,  and  she  was  sobbing  bit 
terly. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  keenly,  without  speak 
ing,  for  a  moment ;  then  she  said  dryly,  ' '  Why , 
I  guess  you  must  have  an  awful  headache.  Come 
on  kind  o'  sudden  like,  didn't  it  ?  I  guess  you'd 
best  go  up  and  lay  down,  an'  I'll  bring  a  mustard 
plaster  up  an'  put  on  your  head.  Ain't  nothin' 
like  a  plaster  for  a  headache  —  'specially  that  kind 
of  a  headache." 

Bart  Winn  walked  into  the  livery  stable  with  an 
air  of  indifference  put  on  so  stiffly  that  it  deceived 
no  one.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  feel  perfectly 
satisfied  with  L-avinia's  explanation,  but  he  was 
a  trifle  uneasy  lest  others  should  not  see  the  thing 
with  his  eyes. 

"  I  guess  I  won't  want  that  rig  to-night,  Billy," 
he  said,  pulling  a  head  of  timothy  out  of  a  bale 
of  hay  that  stood  near.  "Ill  take  it  to-rnorro' 
night." 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  fellow,  with  a  smile 
that  Bart  did  not  like.  "  Girl  sick,  aigh  ?" 

"No,"  said  Bart,  softly  stripping  the  fuzz  off 
the  timothy. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  understan',"  said  Billy,  wink 
ing  one  eye,  cheerfully.  "I've  b'en  there  my 
self.  Girls  is  as  much  alike  's  peas  —  sweet-peas  ' ' 
161 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

— lie  interjected  with  a  hearty  laugh  — "  in  a  pod, 
the  world  over.  It  ain't  never  safe  for  a  fellow  to 
come  home,  after  bein'  away  a  good  spell,  an'  en 
gage  a  buggy  before  findin'  out  if  the  girl  ain't 
engaged  to  some  other  fello' —  it  ain't  noways  safe. 
I  smiled  in  my  sleeve  when  you  walked  in  so  big 
an*  ordered  your'n." 

Bart  Winn  was  slow  to  anger,  but  now  a  dull 
red  came  upon  his  face  and  neck,  and  settled  there 
as  if  burnt  into  the  flesh.  His  eyes  looked  dan 
gerous,  but  he  spoke  quietly.  "  I  guess  you  don't 
know  what  you're  talkin'  about,  Billy.  I  guess 
you  hadn't  best  go  any  furder." 

Billy  came  slowly  toward  him,  nettled  by  his 
tone  —  by  its  very  calm,  in  fact.  "  D'  you  mean 
to  say  that  Laviny  Vaiden  ain't  goin'  a-salmon- 
spearin'  to-night  with  that  dandy  from  New 
York?" 

Bart  swallowed  once  or  twice. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  that's  none  o' 
your  business,"  he  said. 

''Well,  she's  been  a-spearin'  with  him  ev'ry 
night  sence  the  salmon's  b'en  a-runnin' ,  anyway. ' ' 

The  strong,  powerful  trembling  of  a  man  who 
is  trying  to  control  himself  now  siezed  Bart 
Winn. 

"  If  you're  goin'  to  put  on  airs  with  me,"  con 
tinued  Billy,  obtusely,  "I'll  just  tell  you  a  few 
fax  /  They  don' t  burn  any  torch  in  their  boat,  an' 

162 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

they  don't  spear  any  salmon  !  That's  just  a  blind. 
They  go  off  by  theirselves  —  clear  away  from  the 
spearers,  an'  they  don't  come  back  till  they  see 
the  torches  a-goin'  out  an'  know  that  we  all's 
a-goin' home.  It's  the  town  talk.  Not  that  they 
say  anything  wrong,  for  we've  all  knowed  Laviny 
sence  she  was  a  baby  ;  but  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose 
on  a  man's  face  that  you  ain't  in  it  there  since  that 
dood  come." 

A  panorama  of  colors  flamed  over  Bart's  face  ; 
his  hands  clenched  till  the  nails  cut  into  the  flesh 
and  the  blood  spurted  ;  who  has  seen  the  look  in 
the  eyes  of  the  lion  that  cowers  and  obeys  under 
the  terrible  lash  of  the  trainer  will  know  the  look 
that  was  in  the  man's  eyes  while  the  lash  of  his 
own  will  conquered  him  ;  his  broad  chest  swelled 
and  sunk.  At  last  he  spoke,  in  a  deep,  shaking 
voice.  *  *  Billy, ' '  he  said,  * '  you're  a  liar  —  a  liar  ! 
Damn  you  /' '  He  struggled  a  moment  longer 
with  himself,  and  then  turned  and  hurried  away 
as  if  possessed  of  the  devil. 

But  Billy  followed  him  to  the  door  and  called 
after  him  — "  Oh,  damn  me,  aigh  ?  Now,  I  don't 
want  I  sh'u'd  have  a  fight  with  you,  Bart.  I  was 
tryin'  to  do  you  a  favor.  If  you  think  I'm  a 
liar,  it's  a  mighty  easy  thing  for  you  to  go  down 
there  to-night  an'  see  for  yourself.  That's  all  / 
ask." 

Bart  went  on  in  a  passion  of  contending  emo- 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

lieved  about  me.  I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  that 
much  about  you."  The  humor  of  this  remark 
seemed  to  appeal  to  her,  for  she  smiled  a  little. 
Then  she  got  up.  "  But  it's  all  right,  Bart.  I 
ain't  mad.  If  that's  all,  I  guess  I'll  go  back  to 
bed.  You  tell  maw  I  couldn't  put  them  roastin'- 
ears  on — my  head  feels  so." 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed  her 
several  times,  with  something  like  a  prayer  in  his 
eyes,  and  with  a  strong,  but  sternly  controlled 
passion  that  left  him  trembling  and  staggering 
like  a  drunken  man  when  she  was  gone. 


After  Lavinia  and  Diller  were  gone  that  night 
Bart  sat  out  on  the  kitchen  steps,  smoking  his 
pipe.  He  stooped  forward,  his  elbows  resting  on 
his  knees.  His  right  hand  held  the  pipe,  and  the 
left  supported  his  right  arm.  His  eyes  looked 
straight  before  him  into  the  purple  twilight.  The 
wind  had  gone  down,  but  now  and  then  a  little 
gust  of  perfume  came  around  the  corner  from  the 
wild  clover,  still  in  delicate  pink  blossom  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house.  The  stars  came  out,  one 
by  one,  in  the  deep  blue  spaces  above,  and  shrill 
mournful  outcries  came  from  winged  things  in  the 
green  depths  of  the  ferns.  Already  the  torches 
of  the  salmon-spearers  were  beginning  to  flare  out 
from  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs  across  the  bay.  Mr. 

166 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

Vaiden  was  not  at  home,  but  Mrs.  Vaiden  was 
walking  about  heavily  in  the  kitchen,  finishing 
the  evening  work. 

Mrs.  Vaiden  was  not  quite  easy  in  her  mind.  She 
really  liked  Bart  Winn,  but,  to  be  unnecessarily 
and  disagreeably  truthful,  she  liked  even  better  his 
noble  donation  claim,  which  he  was  now  selling 
off  in  town  lots.  Time  and  time  again  during 
the  past  month  she  had  cautioned  L,avinia  to  not 
"  go  galivantin'  'round  with  that  Dillersomuch ;  " 
and  on  numerous  occasions  she  had  affirmed  that 
"  she'd  bet  L,aviny  would  fool  along  till  she  let 
Bart  Winn  slip  through  her  fingers,  after  all." 
Still,  it  had  been  an  unconfessed  satisfaction  to 
her  to  observe  Mr.  Diller's  frank  admiration  for 
her  daughter — to  feel  that  lyavinia  could  "have 
her  pick  o'  the  best  any  day."  She  knew  how 
this  rankled  in  some  of  the  neighbors'  breasts. 
She  wished  now  that  she  had  been  more  strict. 
She  said  to  herself,  as  she  went  out  to  the  spring- 
house:  "  I  wish  I'd  'a'  set  my  foot  right  down  on 
his  goin'  a  step  with  her.  An'  there  I  started  it 
myself,  a-sendin'  her  off  to  that  c'noe  race  with 
him,  just  to  tantalize  Mis'  Bentley  an'  her  troop 
o'  girls.  But  land  knows  I  never  dreamt  o'  its 
goin'  on  this  way.  What's  a  newspaper  fello' 
compared  to  a  donation  claim,  /Vlike  to  know  ?  " 
At  nine  o'clock  she  went  to  the  door  and  said, 
in  that  tone  of  conciliatory  tenderness  which 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

lieved  about  me.  I  wouldn't 
much  about  you."  The  humor  of  this  remark 
seemed  to  appeal  to  her,  for  she  smiled  a  little. 
Then  she  got  up.  "But  it's  all  right,  Bart.  I 
ain't  mad.  If  that's  all,  I  guess  I'll  go  back  to 
bed.  You  tell  maw  I  couldn't  put  them  roastin'- 
ears  on — my  head  feels  so." 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed  her 
several  times,  with  something  like  a  prayer  in  his 
eyes,  and  with  a  strong,  but  sternly  controlled 
passion  that  left  him  trembling  and  staggering 
like  a  drunken  man  when  she  was  gone. 


After  lyavinia  and  Diller  were  gone  that  night 
Bart  sat  out  on  the  kitchen  steps,  smoking  his 
pipe.  He  stooped  forward,  his  elbows  resting  on 
his  knees.  His  right  hand  held  the  pipe,  and  the 
left  supported  his  right  arm.  His  eyes  looked 
straight  before  him  into  the  purple  twilight.  The 
wind  had  gone  down,  but  now  and  then  a  little 
gust  of  perfume  came  around  the  corner  from  the 
wild  clover,  still  in  delicate  pink  blossom  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house.  The  stars  came  out,  one 
by  one,  in  the  deep  blue  spaces  above,  and  shrill 
mournful  outcries  came  from  winged  things  in  the 
green  depths  of  the  ferns.  Already  the  torches 
of  the  salmon-spearers  were  beginning  to  flare  out 
from  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs  across  the  bay.  Mr. 

166 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

Vaiden  was  not  at  home,  but  Mrs.  Vaiden  was 
walking  about  heavily  in  the  kitchen,  finishing 
the  evening  work. 

Mrs.  Vaiden  was  not  quite  easy  in  her  mind.  She 
really  liked  Bart  Winn,  but,  to  be  unnecessarily 
and  disagreeably  truthful,  she  liked  even  better  his 
noble  donation  claim,  which  he  was  now  selling 
off  in  town  lots.  Time  and  time  again  during 
the  past  month  she  had  cautioned  L,avinia  to  not 
"  go  galivantin'  'round  with  that  Dillersornuch ;  " 
and  on  numerous  occasions  she  had  affirmed  that 
"she'd  bet  L,aviny  would  fool  along  till  she  let 
Bart  Winn  slip  through  her  fingers,  after  all." 
Still,  it  had  been  an  unconfessed  satisfaction  to 
her  to  observe  Mr.  Diller's  frank  admiration  for 
her  daughter — to  feel  that  Lavinia  could  "have 
her  pick  o'  the  best  any  day. ' '  She  knew  how 
this  rankled  in  some  of  the  neighbors'  breasts. 
She  wished  now  that  she  had  been  more  strict. 
She  said  to  herself,  as  she  went  out  to  the  spring- 
house:  *  *  I  wish  I'd  '  a'  set  my  foot  right  down  on 
his  goin'  a  step  with  her.  An'  there  I  started  it 
myself,  a-sendin'  her  off  to  that  c'noe  race  with 
him,  just  to  tantalize  Mis'  Bentley  an'  her  troop 
o'  girls.  But  land  knows  I  never  dreamt  o'  its 
goin'  on  this  way.  What's  a  newspaper  fello' 
compared  to  a  donation  claim,  P d  like  to  know  ?  " 
At  nine  o'clock  she  went  to  the  door  and  said, 
in  that  tone  of  conciliatory  tenderness  which 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

comes  from  a  remorseful  conscience :  * '  Well, 
Bart,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed.  I'm  tired.  You 
goin'  to  set  up  for  L,aviny  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Bart;   " good-night. " 

"  Well,  good-night,  Bart."  She  stood  holding 
a  lighted  candle  in  one  hand,  protecting  its  flame 
from  the  night  air  with  the  other.  "I  reckon 
they'll  be  home  by  ten." 

"  I  reckon  so." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  Mrs.  Vaiden  remem 
bered  that  the  parlor  windows  were  open,  and 
she  went  back  to  close  them.  The  wind  was  ris 
ing  again,  and  as  she  opened  the  parlor  door  it 
puffed  through  the  open  windows  and  sent  the 
curtains  streaming  out  into  the  room ;  then  it 
went  whistling  on  through  the  house,  banging 
the  doors. 

After  a  while  quiet  came  upon  the  house. 
Bart  sat  smoking  silently.  The  Vaidens  lived  on 
a  hill  above  the  town,  and  usually  he  liked 
to  watch  the  chains  of  electric  lights  curving 
around  the  bay  ;  but  to-night  he  watched  the 
torches  only.  Suddenly  he  flung  his  pipe  down 
with  a  passionate  movement  and  stood  up,  reach 
ing  inside  the  door  for  his  hat.  But  he  sat  down 
again  as  suddenly,  shaking  himself  like  a  dog,  as 
if  to  fling  off  something  that  was  upon  him.  ' '  No  ; 
I'm  damned  if  I  will!"  he  said  in  his  throat. 
"I  won't  watch  her  1  She  said  it  wa'n't  so,  an'  I 

168 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

believe  her."  But  he  did  not  smoke  again,  and  he 
breathed  more  heavily  as  the  moments  ticked  by 
and  she  did  not  come.  At  half-past  ten  Mrs. 
Vaiden  came  down  in  a  calico  wrapper  and  a 
worsted  shawl. 

"  Why,  ain't  she  come  yet?"  she  asked,  hold 
ing  the  candle  high  and  peering  under  it  at  the 
back  of  the  silent  figure  outside. 

"  No,"  said  Bart  quietly  ;   "  she  ain't." 

4 'Why,  it's  half-after  ten!  She  never's  b'en 
out  this  a-way  before.  D'you  think  anything 
c'u'd  'a'  hapened?" 

"No,"  said  Bart,  slowly;  "I  guess  they'll  be 
along." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  that  she  sh'u'd  stay  out 
till  this  time  o'  night  with  anybody  but  you. 
She's  old  enough  to  know  better.  It  don't  look 
well." 

"  It  looks  all  right,  as  fur  as  that  goes,"  said 
Bart. 

"  Oh,  if  you  think  so." 

Mrs.  Vaiden  lowered  the  candle  huffily. 

Bart  arose  and  came  inside.  He  was  pale  but 
he  spoke  calmly,  and  he  looked  her  straight  in  the 
eyes. 

"It's  all  right  as  fur  as  she  goes ;  I'd  trust  her 
anywheres.  But  how  about  him  ?  What  kind 
of  a  man  is  he  ?' ' 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Vaiden,  weakly. 
169 


CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 


"  How  d'  you  expect  me  to  know  what  kind  of  a 
man  he  is  ?  He's  a  nice-appearin',  polite  sort  of  a 
fello',  an'  he  writes  for  a  newspaper  'n  New  York 
—  one  o'  them  big  ones.  But  he  don't  seem  to 
me  to  have  much  backbone  or  stand-upness  about 
him.  I  sh'u'd  think  he's  one  o'  them  that  never 
intends  to  do  anything  wrong,  but  does  it  just  be 
cause  its  pleasant  for  the  time  bein',  and  then 
feels  sorry  for  't  afte'ards." 

Bart's  brows  bent  together  blackly. 

"  But  I  must  say  "  —  Mrs.  Vaiden's  tone  gath 
ered  firmness  —  "  you  might  pattern  after  him  a 
little  in  politeness,  Bart.  I  think  L,aviny  likes  it. 
He's  alwus  openin'  gates  for  her,  an'  runnin'  to 
set  chairs  for  her  when  she  comes  into  a  room, 
an'  takin'  off  his  hat  to  her,  an'  carryin'  her  um- 
berella,  an'  fetchin'  her  flow'rs  ;  an'  I  b'lieve  he'd 
most  die  before  he'd  walk  on  the  inside  o'  the 
sidewalk  or  go  over  a  crossin'  ahead  o'  her.  An' 
I  can  see  I^aviny  likes  them  things." 

She  put  the  candle  on  the  table  and  huddled 
down  into  a  chair. 

The  look  of  anger  on  the  man's  face  gave 
place  to  one  of  keen  dismay. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  liked  such  things.  I  never 
thought  about  'em.  I  wa'n't  brought  up  to  such 
foolishness." 

"Well,  she  likes  'em,  anyhow.  I  guess  most 
women  do."  Mrs.  Vaiden  sighed  unconsciously. 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

"Why,  Bart,  it's  a  quarter  of,  an'  she  ain't  here 
yet.     D'  you  want  I  sh'u'd  go  after  her  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  you  sh'u'd  go  after  her.  I 
want  you  sh'u'd  let  her  alone,  an'  show  her  we 
got  confidence  in  her.  She's  just  the  same  as  my 
wife,  an'  I  don't  want  her  own  mother  sh'u'd 
think  she'd  do  anything  she  hadn't  ort  to." 

Mrs.  Vaiden's  feelings  were  sensitive  and  easily 
hurt ;  and  she  sat  now  in  icy  silence,  looking  at 
the  clock.  But  when  it  struck  eleven  she  thawed, 
being  now  thoroughly  frightened/' 

"Oh,  Bart,  I  do  think  we'd  best  look  in  her 
room.  She  might  'a'  got  in  someway  without 
our  hearin'  her  —  an'  us  settin'  hyeer  like  a 
couple  o'  bumps  on  a  lawg." 

41  She  might  'a',"  said  Bart,  as  if  struck  by  the 
suggestion.  "You  get  me  a  candle  an'  I'll  go 
up  and  see.  You  stay  here,"  he  added,  over  his 
shoulder,  as  he  took  the  candle  and  started. 

"lyook  out!"  she  cried,  sharply,  as  the  blue 
flame  plowed  a  gutter  down  one  side  of  the  candle. 
"Don't  hold  it  so  crooked!  You'll  spill  the 
sperm  onto  the  stair-carpet !" 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  awe  that  Bart  went 
into  the  dainty  little  room.  There  were  rosebuds 
on  the  creamy  wall-paper,  and  the  ceiling,  slant 
ing  down  on  one  side,  was  pale,  pale  blue, 
spangled  with  silver  stars ;  the  windows  were 
closed,  and  thin,  soft  curtains  fell  in  straight  folds 


CUTTIN'- oirr  OF  BART  WINN 

over  them ;  the  rag  carpet  was  woven  in  pink- 
and-cream  stripes ;  there  was  a  dressing-table 
prettily  draped  in  pink.  For  a  moment  the  man's 
love  was  stronger  than  his  anxiety ;  the  prayer 
came  back  to  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  the  narrow, 
snowy  bed. 

Then  he  went  to  the  dressing-table  and  saw  a 
folded  slip  of  p&per  with  his  name  upon  it. 


After  a  while  he  became  conscious  that  he  had 
read  the  letter  a  dozen  times,  and  still  had  not 
grasped  its  meaning.  He  stooped  closer  to  the 
candle  and  read  it  again,  his  lips  moving  mechan 
ically: 

"DEAR  BART:— I'm  goin'  away.  I'm  goin'  with 
him.  I  told  you  what  wa'n't  so  this  mornin'.  I  do  like 
him  the  best.  I  couldn't  have  you  after  knowin'  him. 
I  feel  awful  bad  to  treat  you  this  a-way,  but  I  haf  to. 

IvAVINY." 

u  P.  S. —  I  want  that  you  sh'u'd  marry  somebody  else 
as  soon  as  you  can,  an'  be  happy." 


A  querulous  call  came  from  the  hall  below. 
He  took  the  candle  in  one  hand  and  the  letter  in 
the  other  and  went  down,  stumbling  clumsily  on 
the  stairs.  A  great  many  noises  seemed  to  be 
ringing  in  his  head,  and  the  sober  paper  with 
which  the  walls  of  the  hall  were  covered  to  have 
172 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

suddenly  taken  on  great  scarlet  spots.  He  felt 
helpless  and  uncertain  in  his  movements,  as  if  he 
had  no  will  to  guide  him.  He  must  have  carried 
the  candle  very  crookedly,  for  Mrs.  Vaiden,  who 
was  watching  him  from  below,  cried  out,  petu 
lantly  :  ' '  There,  you  are  spillin'  the  sperm  ! 
Just  look  at  you!'*  But  she  stopped  abruptly 
when  she  saw  his  face. 

"  Why,  whatever  on  this  earth  !"  she  exclaimed, 
solemnly.  "What  you  got  there?  A  letter?" 

"Yes."  He  set  the  candle  on  the  table  and 
held  the  letter  toward  her.  "  It's  from  I/aviny." 

'  '  From  Laviny  !  Why,  what  on  earth  did  she 
write  to  you  about  ?" 

He  burst  into  wild,  terrible  laughter.  ' '  She 
wants  I  sh'u'd  marry  somebody  else  as  soon  as  I 
can,  an'  be  happy."  These  words,  at  least, 
seemed  to  have  written  themselves  on  his  brain. 
He  groped  about  blindly  for  his  hat,  and  went 
out  into  the  shrill,  whistling  night.  The  last 
torch  had  burnt  itself  out,  and  everything  was 
black  save  the  electric  lights,  winking  in  the 
wind,  and  one  strip  of  whitening  sky  above  Mount 
Baker,  where  presently  the  moon  would  rise,  sil 
ver  and  cool. 


It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  he 
came  back.     He  washed  his  hands  and  face  at  the 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

sink  on  the  porch,  and  combed  his  hair  before  a 
tiny  mirror,  in  which  a  dozen  reflections  of  him 
self  danced.  Mrs.  Vaiden  was  frying  ham.  At 
sight  of  him  she  began  to  cry,  weakly  and  noise 
lessly.  * '  Where  you  been  ?' '  she  sniffled.  '  *  You 
look  forty  year  old.  I  set  up  till  one  o'clock, 
a-waitin'  for  you." 

"Mrs.  Vaiden,"  said  Bart,  quietly,  "I'm  in 
great  trouble.  I've  walked  all  night,  tryin'  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  't.  I've  done  it  at  last  ; 
but  I  cu'dn't  'a'  come  back  tell  I  did.  I'm  sorry 
you  waited  up." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  that  as  long  as  you're  get- 
tin'  reconciled  to  't,  Bart."  Mrs.  Vaiden  spoke 
more  hopefully.  "  You  set  right  down  an'  have 
a  bite  to  eat." 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  he  replied  ;  but  he 
sat  down  and  took  a  cup  of  coffee.  It  must  have 
been  very  hot,  for  suddenly  great  tears  came  into 
his  eyes  and  stood  there.  Mrs.  Vaiden  sat  down 
opposite  to  him  and  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  table 
and  her  head  on  her  hand.  "Bart,"  she  said, 
solemnly,  "I  don't  want  you  sh'u'd  think  I  ever 
winked  at  this.  It  never  entered  my  head.  My 
heart's  just  broke.  To  see  a  likely  girl,  that  c'u'd 
'a'  had  her  pick  anywheres,  up  an'  run  away  with 
a  no-account  newspaper  fello' — when  she  c'u'd 
'a'  had  you!"  The  man's  face  contracted. 
"  Whatever  on  earth  the  neighbors  '11  say  I  don't 
know.'*  174 


THE   CUTTIN'-  OLT  OF   BART  WINN 

"  Who  cares  what  neighbors  say  ?" 

11  Oh,  that's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  ;  you 
ain't  her  mother.*' 

"No,"  said  Bart,  with  a  look  that  made  her 
quail ;  "  I  ain't.  I  wish  to  God  I  was  !  Mebbe 
't  wouldn't  hurt  so  !" 

11  Well,  it  'ad  ort  to  hurt  more  !"  retorted  the 
lady,  with  spirit.  "Just  's  if  you  felt  any  worse 
'n  I  do!"  He  laid  his  head  on  his  hand  and 
groaned.  "  Oh,  I  know  it's  gone  deep,  Bart "  — 
her  tone  softened —  "but  's  I  say,  you  ain't  her 
mother.  You'll  get  over  it  an'  marry  again  — 
like  Laviny  wanted  that  you  sh'u'd.  It  was  good 
o'  her  to  think  o'  that.  I  will  say  that  much  for 
her." 

"Yes,"  said  Bart;  "it  was  good  of  her." 
Then  there  came  a  little  silence,  broken  finally 
by  Mrs.  Vaiden.  Her  voice  held  a  note  of  pee 
vish  regret.  "There's  that  fine  house  o'  your'n 
'most  finished — two  story  an'  a  ell !  An'  that 
liberry  across  the  front  hall  from  the  parlor  ! 
When  I  think  how  vain  Laviny  was  o'  that  li 
berry  !  What' 11  you  do  with  the  house,  now, 
Bart?" 

"Sell  it ! "  he  answered,  between  his  teeth. 
"An'  there's  all  that  fine  furnitur'  that  I,aviny 
an'  you  picked  out.     She  fairly  danced  when  she 
told  me  about  it.     All  covered  with  satin — robin- 
egg  green,  wa'n't  it?" 

'75 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

"Blue."  The  word  dropped  mechanically  from 
his  white  lips. 

"  Well,  blue,  then.    What'll  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  guess  they'll  take  it  back  by  my  losin'  my 
first  payment,"  he  answered,  with  a  kind  of 
ghastly  humor. 

"Well,  there's  your  new  buggy — all  paid  for. 
They  won't  take  that  back." 

"I'll  give  that  to  you,"  he  said,  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

"  Oh,  you  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vaiden,  throwing 
out  her  large  hand  at  him  in  a  gesture  of  mingled 
embarrassment  and  delight.  "As  if  I'd  take  it, 
after  L,aviny's  actin'  up  this  a- way  !  " 

He  did  not  reply,  and  presently  she  broke  out, 
angrily,  with  : 

"The  huzzy  !  The  ungrateful,  deceitful  jade  ! 
To  treat  a  body  so.  How  do  we  know  whether 
he's  got  anything  to  keep  a  wife  on  ?  I'll  admit, 
though,  he  was  alwus  genteel- dressed.  I  do 
think,  Bart,  you  might  'a'  took  pattern  'n  that. 
'T  wa'n't  like  as  if  you  wa'n't  able  to  wear  good 
clo'es — an'  I^aviny  liked  such  things." 

"I  wish  you'd  'a'  told  me  a  good  spell  ago 
what  she  liked,  Mrs.  Vaiden." 

"Well,   that's  so.     There  ain't  much  use  'n 
lockin'  the  stable  door  after  the  horse  's  gone. 
Oh,  that  makes  me  think  about  your  offerm'  me 
tkat  buggy— 's  if  I  w'u'd  !" 
176 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

"  I  guess  you'll  have  to.    I'm  goin'  to  leave  on 
the  train,  an'  I'll  order  it  sent  to  you." 

"  Oh,  you  !   Why,  where  you  goin',  Bart?  " 

"I'm  goin'  to  follow  him!"  he  thundered, 
bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  in  a  way  that 
made  every  dish  leap  out  of  its  place.  "I  ain't 
goin'  to  hurt  him — unless  talk  hurts — but  I'm 
goin'  to  say  some  things  to  him.  I  ain't  had  a 
thought  for  three  year  that  that  girl  ain'  t  b'en  in  ! 
I  ain't  made  a  plan  that  she  ain't  b'en  in.  I've 
laid  awake  night  after  night  just  too  happy  to 
sleep.  An'  now  to  have  a — a  thing  like  him  take 
her  from  me  in  one  month.  But  that  ain't  the 
worst !  "  he  burst  out,  passionately.  "  We  don't 
know  how  he'll  treat  her,  an'  she'll  be  too  proud 
to  complain — " 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  care  how  he  treats  her," 
said  Mrs.  Vaiden,  "after  the  way  she's  treated 
you." 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  look  that  ought  to 
have  crushed  her,  "  I  didn't  s'pose  you  c'u'd  see. 
I  didn't  expect  you  to  see  that,  or  anything  else 
but  your  own  feelin's  —  the  way  the  thing  affex 
you.  But  that's  what  I'm  goin'  to  follow  him 
for,  Mrs.  Vaiden.  An'  when  I  find  him  —  I'm 
goin'  to  tell  him" — there  was  an  awful  calm  in 
his  tone  now —  "  that  if  he  ever  misuses  her,  now 
that  he's  married  her,  I'll  kill  him.  I'll  shoot 
him  down  like  a  dawg  !" 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

"My  I/ord  !"  broke  in  Mrs.  Vaiden,  with  a 
new  thought.  "What  if  he  ain't  married  her  ! 
She  never  said  so  'n  her  letter.  Oh,  Bart !"  be 
ginning  to  weep  hysterically.  *  *  Mebbe  you  c'u'd 
get  her  back. ' ' 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  panting  like  an  animal ; 
his  great  breast  swelled  in  and  out  swiftly,  his 
hands  clenched,  his  eyes  burned  at  her. 

"What!"  he  said.  "Do  you  dare?  Her 
mother  /  Oh,  you  —  you  —  God  !  but  I  wish  you 
was  a  man  !" 

The  whistle  of  a  coming  train  broke  across  the 
morning  stillness.  He  turned,  seized  his  hat  and 
crushed  it  on  his  head.  Then  he  came  back  and 
took  up  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting. 

"Mrs.  Vaiden,"  he  said,  quietly,  "d'  you  see 
this  chair?  Well,  if  he  ain't  married  her — " 

With  two  or  three  movements  of  his  powerful 
wrists  he  wrenched  the  chair  into  as  many  pieces 
and  dropped  them  on  the  floor. 


After  a  while  Mrs.  Vaiden  emerged  from  the 
stupefaction  into  which  his  last  words  had  thrown 
her,  and  resumed  her  breakfast. 

"Well,"  she  said,  stirring  her  coffee  until  it 

swam  round  and  round  in  a  smooth  eddy  in  the  cup, 

11  if  I  ever  see  his  beat !     Whoever  'd  'a'  thought 

he'd  take  his  cuttin'-out  that  a- way  ?    I  never  'd 

178 


THE  CUTTIN'-OUT  OF  BART  WINN 

V  thought  it.  Worry  in'  about  her,  after  the  vva> 
she's  up  and  used  him  !  A  body  'd  think  he'd 
be  glad  if  she  was  treated  shameful,  and  hatto 
lead  a  mis'rable  life  a-realizin'  what  she'd  threw 
away.  But  not  him.  Well,  they  say  still  water 
runs  deep.  Mebbe  it's  ungrateful  to  think  it  after 
his  givin'  me  that  fine  buggy  — (How  Mis'  Bent- 
ley  will  stare  when  I  drive  roun'  to  see  her  !"  she 
interjected  with  a  smile  of  anticipation.)  "But 
after  seem'  how  he  showed  up  his  temper  just 
now  I  ain't  sure  but  I^aviny's  head  was  level 
when  she  took  the  other  *n.  'F  only  he  had  a 
donation  claim  1" 


179 


ZARKUXA. 


ZARKlyDA 

"  'Reldy !    Say,  'Reldy  !     Za-r<?Ady  ! " 

The  girl  was  walking  rapidly,  but  she  stopped 
at  once  and  turned.  She  wore  a  cheap  woolen 
dress  of  a  dingy  brown  ,color.  The  sleeves  were 
soiled  at  the  wrists,  but  the  narrow,  inexpensive 
ruffle  at  the  neck  was  white  and  fresh.  Her  thick 
brown  hair  was  well  brushed  and  clean.  It  was 
woven  into  a  heavy,  glistening  braid  which  was 
looped  up  and  tied  with  a  rose-colored  ribbon. 
Her  shoes  were  worn  out  of  shape  and  "run 
down  ' '  at  the  heels,  and  there  were  no  gloves  on 
the  roughened  hands  clasped  over  the  handle  of 
her  dinner-bucket. 

' '  Oh,  you  ?  ' '  she  said,  smiling. 

"Yes,  me,"  said  the  other  girl,  with  a  high 
color,  as  she  joined  Zarelda.  They  walked  along 
briskly  together.  "I've  been  try  in'  to  ketch  up 
with  you  for  three  blocks.  Ain't  you  early?  " 

"No;  late.  Heard  the  whistle  blow  'fore  I 
left  home.  Didn't  you  hear  it?  Now  own  up, 
Em  Bracket*. " 

"No,  I  didn't— honest,"  said  the  other  girl, 
laughing.  "  I  set  the  clock  back  las'  night  an' 
forgot  to  turn  it  ahead  ag'in  this  mornin'." 

This  young  woman's  dress  and  manner  differed 

'83 


from  her  companion's.  Her  dress  was  cheap,  but 
of  flimsy,  figured  goods  that  under  close  inspec 
tion  revealed  many  and  large  grease  spots ;  the 
sleeves  were  fashionably  puffed;  and  there  were 
ruffles  and  frills  and  plaitings  all  over  it.  At 
the  throat  was  a  bit  of  satin  ruffling  that  had 
once  been  pale  blue.  Half  her  hair  had  been  cut 
off,  making  what  she  called  her  "bangs,"  and 
this  was  tightly  frizzed  over  her  head  as  far  back 
as  her  ears.  Her  back  hair — coarse  and  broken 
from  many  crimpings — was  braided  and  looped 
up  like  Zarelda's,  and  tied  with  a  soiled  blue  rib 
bon.  She  wore  much  cheap  jewelry,  especially 
amethysts  in  gaudy  settings.  She  carried  herself 
with  an  air  and  was  popularly  supposed  by  the 
young  people  of  factory  society  to  be  very  much 
of  a  belle  and  a  coquette. 

Zarelda  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  sudden 
interest. 

' '  What  in  the  name  o'  mercy  did  you  turn  the 
clock  back  for?" 

Km  tossed  her  head,  laughing  and  blushing. 

* '  Never  you  mind  what  for,  '  Reldy  Winser. 
It  ain't  any  'o  your  funeral,  I  guess,  if  I  did  turn 
it  back.  I  had  occasion  to — that's  all.  You 
wasn't  at  the  dance  up  at  Canernah  las'  night, 
was  you  ?  ' '  she  added  suddenly. 

"  No,  I  wasn't.  I  didn't  have  anybody  to  go 
with.  You  didn't  go,  either,  did  you  ?  " 

184 


11  Unh-hunh;  I  did." 

Km  nodded  her  head,  looking  up  the  river  to 
the  great  Falls,  with  dreamy,  remembering  eyes. 
*  *  We  had  a  splendid  time,  an'  the  walk  home 
along  the  river  was  just  fine." 

"Well,  I  could  of  gone  with  you  if  I'd  of  knew 
you  was  goin'.  Couldn't  I  ?  Maw  was  reel  well 
las'  night,  too." 

She  waited  for  a  reply,  but  receiving  none,  re 
peated  rather  wistfully — "  Couldn't  I  ?  " 

Km  took  her  eyes  with  some  reluctance  away 
from  the  river  and  looked  straight  before  her. 

"Why,  I  guess,"  she  said,  slowly  and  with 
slight  condescension.  "At  least,  I  wouldn't  of 
cared  if  my  comp'ny  wouldn't;  an  I  guess" — 
with  a  beautiful  burst  of  generosity — "he  wouldn't 
of  minded  much." 

"Oh,"  said  Zarelda,  "you  had  comp'ny,  did 
you?" 

"  W'y,  of  course.  You  didn't  s'pose  I  went  up 
there  all  alone  of  myself,  did  you?  " 

"You  an'  me  ust  to  go  alone  places,  without 
any  fellow,  I  mean,"  said  Zarelda.  A  little  color 
came  slowly  into  her  face.  She  felt  vaguely  hurt 
by  the  other's  tone.  "  I  thought  mebbe  you  went 
with  some  o'  the  other  girls." 

"  I  don't  go  around  that  way  any  more."  Km 
lifted  her  chin  an  inch  higher.  "  When  I  can't 
have  an — escort" — she  uttered  the  word  with 

185 


some  hesitation,  fearing  Zarelda  might  laugh  at 
it— "  I'll  stay  home." 

Then  she  added  abruptly  in  a  reminiscent 
tone — "  Maw  acted  up  awful  over  my  goin'  with 
him.  Thought  for  a  spell  I  wouldn't  get  to  go. 
But  at  last  I  flared  all  up  an'  told  her  if  I  couldn't 
go  I'd  just  up  an'  leave  for  good.  That  brought 
her  around  to  the  whipple-trees  double  quick,  I 
can  tell  you.  I  guess  she  won't  say  much  agen 
my  goin'  with  him  another  time." 

' '  Goin'  with  who  ?  "  said  Zarelda.  Km  looked 
at  her,  smiling. 

' '  For  the  land  o'  love  !  D'  you  mean  to  say 
you  don't  know?  I  thought  you'd  of  guessed. 
W'y,  that's  what  made  maw  so  mad — she  was 
just  hoppin',  I  tell  you.  That's  what  made  her 
act  up  so.  Said  all  the  neighbors  'u'd  say  I  was 
tryin'  to  get  him  away  from  you." 

In  an  instant  the  blood  had  flamed  all  over  Za 
relda' s  face  and  neck. 

"  Get  who  away  from  me,  Km  Brackett  ?  " 

4 'As  if  there  was  so  many  to  get !"  said  Km, 
laughing. 

"  Who  are  you  a-talkin'  about?"  said  Zarelda, 
sternly.  Her  face  was  paling  now.  ' '  What  of  I 
got  to  do  with  you  an'  your  comp'ny  an'  your 
maw's  actin'-ups,  I'd  like  to  know.  Who  was 
your  comp'ny?" 

"JimSheppard;  he"— 

1 86 


"Jim  Sheppard  !"  cried  Zarelda,  furiously.  She 
turned  a  white  face  to  her  companion,  but  her 
eyes  were  blazing.  "What  do  I  care  for  Jim 
Sheppard  ?  Aigh  ?  What  do  I  care  who  he  takes 
to  dances  up  at  Canemah  ?  Aigh  ?  You  tell  your 
maw,  Km  Brackett,  that  she  needn't  to  trouble  to 
act  up  on  my  account.  She  can  save  her  actin'- 
ups  for  somebody  that  needs  'em  !  You  tell  her 
that,  will  you?" 

"Well,  I  will,"  said  Em,  unmoved.  "I'm 
glad  you  don't  mind,  'Reldy.  I  felt  some  uneasy 
myself,  seein'  *s  how  stiddy  he'd  been  goin'  with 
you." 

44  Well,  that  don't  hender  his  goin'  with  some 
body  else,  does  it?  I  ain't  very  likely  to  keep 
him  from  pleasin'  hisself,  am  I?" 

"Don't  go  to  workin'  yourself  up  so,  'Reldy. 
If  you  don't  care,  there's  no  use  in  flarin'  up  so. 
My  !  Just  look  at  this  em' raid  ring  in  at  Shindy's. 
Ain't  that  a  beaut'  ?"  , 

"I  ain't  got  time."  Zarelda  walked  on  with 
her  head  up.  "  Don't  you  see  we're  late  a' ready  ? 
The  machin'ry's  all  a-goin',  long  ago." 

The  two  girls  pushed  through  the  swinging  gate 
and  ran  up  the  half-dozen  steps  to  the  entrance 
of  the  big,  brick  woolen  mills.  A  young  man  in 
a  flannel  shirt  and  brown  overalls  was  passing 
through  the  outer  hall.  He  was  twirling~a  full, 
crimson  rose  in  his  hand. 


As  the  girls  hurried  in,  lie  paused  and  stood 
awkwardly  waiting  for  them,  with  a  red  face. 

"Good  mornin',"  he  said,  looking  first  at  Km 
and  then,  somewhat  shamefacedly,  at  Zarelda. 

"Good  mornin',  Jim,"  said  Zarelda,  coolly. 
She  was  still  pale,  but  she  smiled  as  she  pressed 
on  into  the  weaving-room.  The  many-tongued 
roar  of  the  machinery  burst  through  the  open 
door  to  greet  her.  Km  lingered  behind  a  moment  ; 
and  when  she  passed  Zarelda' s  loom  there  was  a 
crimson  rose  in  her  girdle  and  two  more  in  her 
cheeks. 

Five  hours  of  monotonous  work  followed.  Za 
relda  stood  patiently  by  her  loom,  unmindful  of 
the  toilers  around  her  and  the  deafening  noise ; 
she  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her  work.  She  was 
the  youngest  weaver  in  the  factory  and  one  of  the 
most  careful  and  conscientious. 

The  marking-room  was  in  the  basement,  and  in 
its  quietest  corner  was  a  large  stove  whereon  the 
factory-girls  were  permitted  to  warm  their  lunches. 
When  the  whistle  sounded  at  noon  they  ceased 
work  instantly,  seized  their  lunch  baskets,  and 
sped — pushing,  laughing,  jostling  —  down  the 
stairs  to  the  basement.  There  was  a  small,  rick 
ety  elevator  at  the  rear  of  the  factory,  and  some 
of  the  more  reckless  ones  leaped  upon  it  and  let 
themselves  down  with  the  rope. 

Zarelda  was  timid  about  the  elevator ;  but  that 
188 


ZARKI.DA 

noon  she  sprang  upon  it  and  giving  the  rope  a 
jerk  went  spinning  down  to  the  ground.  As  she 
entered  the  marking-room  one  of  the  overseers 
saw  her.  "What!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you 
come  down  that  elevator,  '  Reldy  ?  I  thought  you 
had  more  sense  'n  some  o'  the  other  girls.  Why,  it 
ain't  safe  !  You're  liable  to  get  killed  on  it." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Zarelda,  with  a  short,  con 
temptuous  laugh.  "I'd  just  as  soon  go  over  the 
falls  in  an  Indian  dug-out." 

"You  must  want  to  shuffle  off  mighty  bad," 
said  the  overseer.  Then  he  added  kindly,  for  he 
and  all  the  other  overseers  liked  her —  "  What's 
got  into  you,  'Reldy?  Anything  ail  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl ;  "  nothin'  ails  me."  But 
his  kind  tone  had  brought  sudden,  stinging  tears 
to  her  eyes. 

She  went  on  silently  to  the  stove  and  set  her 
bucket  upon  it.  It  contained  thick  vegetable 
soup,  which,  with  soda  crackers,  constituted  her 
dinner.  She  sat  down  to  watch  it,  stirring  it  oc 
casionally  with  a  tin  spoon.  Twenty  other  girls 
were  crowding  around  the  stove.  Km  was  among 
them.  Zarelda  saw  the  big  red  rose  lolling  in 
her  girdle.  She  turned  her  eyes  resolutely  away 
from  it,  only  to  find  them  going  back  again  and 
again. 

"Hey!  Where  'd  you  get  your  rose  at,  Em 
Brackett?"  cried  one  of  the  girls. 

189 


"  Jim  Sheppard  gave  it  to  her,"  trebled  another, 
before  Km  could  reply.  ' '  I  see  him  have  it  pinned 
onto  his  flannel  shirt  before  the  whistle  blew." 

"Jim  Sheppard!     Oh,  my  !" 

There  was  a  subdued  titter  behind  Zarelda's 
back.  She  stirred  the  soup  without  lifting  her 
eyes.  "She  went  livid,  though,  an'  then  she 
went  white  !"  one  of  the  girls  who  read  yellow 
novels  declared  afterward,  tragically. 

"Well,"  said  Matt  Wilson,  sitting  down  on  a 
bench  and  commencing  to  eat  a  great  slice  of 
bread  thinly  covered  with  butter,  ' '  who  went  to 
the  dance  up  at  Stringtown  las'  night  ?' ' 

All  the  girls  but  two  flung  unclean  hands  above 
their  heads.  There  was  a  merry  outcry  of  "I 
did!  I  did!" 

"  Well,  I  didn't,"  said  Matt.  "  My  little  lame 
sister  coaxed  me  to  wheel  her  down  town,  an* 
then  it  was  too  late." 

"Why  wasn't  you  there,  Zarelda  Winser?" 
cried  Belle  Church,  opening  her  dinner  bucket 
and  examining  the  contents  with  the  air  of  an  ep 
icurean. 

For  a  second  or  two  Zarelda  wished  honestly 
that  she  had  a  lame  sister  or  an  invalid  mother. 
Then  she  said,  quite  calmly  —  "  I  didn't  have  any 
body  to  go  with.  That's  why. ' '  She  turned  and 
faced  them  all  as  she  spoke. 

With  a  fine  delicacy  which  was  certainly  not  ac- 
190 


quired  by  education,  every  girl  except  Matt  looked 
away  from  Zarelda' s  face.  Matt,  not  having  been 
to  the  dance,  was  not  in  the  secret. 

But  Zarelda  did  not  change  countenance.  She 
sat  calmly  eating  her  soup  from  the  bucket  with 
the  tin  spoon.  She  took  it  noisily  from  the  point 
of  the  spoon  ;  it  was  so  thick  that  it  was  like  eat 
ing  a  vegetable  dinner. 

"  Didn't  have  anybody  to  go  with?"  repeated 
Matt,  laughing  loudly.  "I  call  that  good.  A 
girl  that's  had  steady  comp'ny  for  a  year  !  Com- 
p'ny  that's  tagged  her  closer  'n  her  shadder  !  An' 
I  did  hear" — she  shattered  the  shell  of  a  hard- 
boiled  egg  by  hammering  it  on  the  bench,  and  be 
gan  picking  off  the  pieces  — ' '  that  your  maw  was 
makin'  you  up  a  whole  trunkful  o'  new  under- 
clo's  —  all  trimmed  up  with  tattin'  an'  crochet  an' 
serpentine  braid  —  with  insertin'  two  inches  wide 
on  'em,  too.  You  didn't  have  anybody  to  go 
with,  aigh  ?  What's  the  matter  with  Jim  Shep- 
pard?" 

Zarelda  set  her  eyes  on  the  red  rose,  as  if  that 
gave  her  courage. 

"  He  took  Em  Bracket!" 

"Not  much!"  said  Matt,  turning  sharply. 
"  Honest?  Well,  then,  he  only  took  her  because 
you  couldn't  go  an'  ast  him  to  take  her  instid." 

"Why,  the  idee!"  exclaimed  Km,  coloring 
angrily  and  fluttering  until  the  rose  almost  fell 
191 


out  of  her  girdle.  '  *  Zarelda  Winser,  you  tell  tier 
that  ain't  so!" 

"No,  it  ain't  so,"  said  Zarelda,  composedly, 
finishing  her  soup  and  beginning  on  a  soda 
cracker.  "He  didn't  ask  me  at  all.  He  asked 
Kmhisself." 

"  My  !"  said  Net  Carter,  who  had  not  been  giv 
ing  attention  to  the  conversation.  "What  larra- 
pin'  good  lunches  you  do  have,  Km  Brackett. 
Chicken  sandwich,  an'  spiced  cur'nts,  an'  cake  ! 
My  !" 

Km  Brackett  looked  out  of  the  cobwebbed  win 
dow  at  a  small  dwelling  between  the  factory  and 
the  river.  "  I  wonder  why  Mis'  Allen  don't  hide 
up  that  ugly  porch  o'  her'n  with  vines,"  she  said, 
frostily.  In  factory  society  "larrapin"  was  not 
considered  a  polite  word  and  a  snub  invariably 
awaited  the  unfortunate  young  woman  who  used 
it.  The  line  must  be  drawn. 

When  the  whistle  blew  the  girls  started  leisurely 
for  the  stairs.  There  would  be  fifteen  minutes 
during  which  they  might  stand  around  the  halls 
and  talk  to  the  young  men.  Zarelda  fell  back, 
permitting  all  to  precede  her.  Km  looked  back 
once  or  twice  to  see  where  she  was. 

"Well,  if  that  'Reldy  Winser  ain't  grit !"  whis 
pered  Nell  Curry  to  Min  Aster.  * '  Just  as  good 
as  acknowledgin'  he's  threw  off  on  her,  an'  her 
a-holdin'  up  her  head  that  way.  There  ain't  an- 
192 


other  girl  in  the  factory  c'u'd  do  that  —  without 
flinchin',  too." 

When  Zarelda  reached  the  first  hall  she  looked 
about  her  deliberately  for  Jim  Sheppard.  It  had 
been  his  custom  to  meet  her  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  going  with  her  to  one  of  the  windows  over 
looking  the  Falls,  to  talk  until  the  second  whistle 
sent  them  to  their  looms.  With  a  resolute  air  she 
joined  Em  Brackett,  who  was  looking  unusually 
pretty  with  a  flush  of  excitement  on  her  face  and 
a  defiant  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

In  a  moment  Jim  Sheppard  came  in.  He  hesi 
tated  when  he  saw  the  two  girls  together.  A  dull 
red  went  over  his  face.  Then  he  crossed  the  hall 
and  deliberately  ignoring  Zarelda,  smiled  into 
Em's  boldly  inviting  eyes  and  said,  distinctly  — 
"Em,  don't  you  want  to  take  a  little  walk? 
There's  just  time." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Em,  with  a  flash  of  poorly 
concealed  triumph.  "'Reldy,  if  you're  a-goin' 
on  upstairs,  would  you  just  as  lieve  pack  my 
bucket  up?" 

"I'd  just  as  lieve."  Zarelda  took  the  bucket, 
and  the  young  couple  walked  away  airily. 

This  was  the  way  the  factory  young  men  had 
of  disclosing  their  preferences.  It  was  considered 
quite  proper  for  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
to  "go  together"  for  months,  or  even  years,  and 
for  one  to  "throw  off"  on  the  other,  when  at- 

193 


tracted  by  a  fresher  face,  with  no  explanation  or 
apology. 

"Well,"  whispered  Belle  Church,  "I  guess 
there  ain't  one  of  us  but's  been  threw  off  on  some 
time  or  other,  so  we  know  how  it  feels.  But  this 
is  worse.  He's  been  goin'  with  her  more'n  a  year 
—  an  then  to  stop  off  so  sudden  !" 

"  It's  better  to  stop  off  sudden  than  slow,"  said 
Matt  Wilson,  with  an  air  of  grim  wisdom.  "It 
hurts  worse,  but  it  don't  hurt  so  long.  Well,  if 
I  ever  !  Just  look  at  that !  " 

Out  of  sheer  pity  Frank  Haddon  had  sidled  out 
of  a  group  of  young  men  and  made  his  way  hesi 
tatingly  to  Zarelda.  "  'Reldy,"  he  said,  "  don't 
you  want  to — want  to — take  a  walk,  too  ?  " 

The  girl's  eyes  flamed  at  him.  She  knew  that 
he  was  pitying  her,  and  she  was  not  of  a  nature 
to  accept  pity  meekly.  "  No  !  "  she  flashed  out, 
with  scorn.  "  I  don't  want  to — want  to  " — mim 
icking  his  tone — ' '  take  a  walk,  too.  If  I  did,  I 
guess  I  know  the  road." 

She  went  upstairs,  holding  her  head  high. 

When  Zarelda  went  home  that  evening  she 
found  the  family  already  at  the  supper  table.  The 
Winsers  were  not  very  particular  about  their  home 
manners. 

* '  We  don' t  wait  on  each  other  here, ' '  Mrs.  Win- 
ser  explained,  frequently,  with  pride,  to  her  neigh 
bors.  "  When  a  meal's  done,  on  the  table  it  goes 
194 


ZARB3.DA 


In  a  jiffy,  an*  such  of  us  as  is  here,  eat.  I  just 
put  the  things  back  in  the  oven  an'  keep  'em  hot 
for  them  that  ain't  on  hand." 

Zarelda  was  compelled  to  pass  through  the 
kitchen  to  reach  the  stairs. 

"Well,  'Reldy,"  said  her  mother,  "you're 
here  at  last,  be  you?  Hurry  up  an'  wash  your 
self.  Your  supper's  in  the  oven,  but  I  guess 
the  fire's  about  out.  It  does  beat  all  how  quick 
it  goes  out.  Paw,  I  do  wish  you'd  hump  yourself 
an'  git  some  dry  wood.  It  'u'd  try  the  soul  of  a 
saint  to  cook  with  that  green  stuff.  Sap  fairly 
oozes  out  of  it !" 

"  I  don't  want  any  supper,  maw,"  said  Zarelda. 

'  *  You  don' t  want  any  supper !  What  ails  you  ? 
Aigh?" 

"  I  don't  feel  hungry.     I  got  a  headache." 

She  passed  the  table  without  a  glance  and  went 
upstairs.  Her  mother  arose,  pushing  back  her 
chair  with  decision  and  followed  her.  When  she 
reached  Zarelda's  room,  the  girl  was  on  her  knees 
before  her  trunk.  She  had  taken  out  a  small 
writing-desk  and  was  fitting  a  tiny  key  in  the 
lock.  Her  hat  was  still  on  her  head,  but  pushed 
back. 

She  started  when  the  door  opened,  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder,  flushing  with  embarrassment 
and  annoyance.  Then,  without  haste  or  nervoos- 


195 


ZAREXDA 

s 

ness,  she  replaced  the  desk  and  closing  the  trunk, 
stood  up  calmly  and  faced  her  mother. 

"Why  don't  you  want  any  supper?"  Mrs. 
Winser  took  in  the  trunk,  the  desk,  and  the  blush 
at  one  glance.  "  Be  you  sick  ?  " 

"  I  got  a  headache."  Zarelda  took  off  her  hat 
and  commenced  drawing  the  pins  out  of  her  hair. 
She  untied  the  red  ribbon  and  rolled  it  tightly 
around  three  fingers  to  smooth  out  the  creases. 

"Well,  you  wasn't  puttia'  your  headache  'n 
your  writin'-desk,  was  you? " 

"No,  I  wasn't." 

"Now,  see  here,  'Reldy,"  said  Mrs.  Winser, 
very  kindly,  coming  closer  and  resting  one  large 
hand  on  the  bureau  ;  "there's  somethin'  ails  you 
besides  a  headache,  an'  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  pull 
any  wool  over  my  eyes.  You've  hed  lots  an'  lots 
o'  headaches  an'  et  your  supper  just  the  same. 
What  ails  you?" 

"Nothin'  ails  me,  maw." 

"There  does,  too,  somethin'  ail  you.  I  guess 
I  know.  Now,  what  is  it  ?  You  might  just  as 
well  spit  it  right  out  an'  be  done  with  it." 

Zarelda  was  silent.  She  began  brushing  her 
hair  with  a  dingy  brush  from  which  tufts  of 
bristles  had  been  worn  in  several  places.  Her 
mother  watched  her  patiently  for  a  few  moments, 
then  she  said — "Well,  'Reldy,  be  you  goin'  tp 
tell  me  what  ails  you  ?  " 

196 


ZAREXDA 

Still  there  was  no  reply. 

"  You  ain't  turned  off  in  the  fact'ry,  be  you?" 

Zarelda  shook  her  head. 

4 'Well,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Winser  slowly,  as  if 
reluctantly  admitting  a  thought  that  she  had 
been  repelling,  ' '  it's  somethin'  about  Jim  Shep- 
pard." 

The  girl  paled  and  brushed  her  hair  over  her 
face  to  screen  it  from  her  mother's  searching  gaze. 

1 '  Have  you  fell  out  with  him  ?  ' ' 

"No,  I  ain't  fell  out  with  him.  Hadn't  you 
best  eat  your  supper  before  it  gets  cold,  maw  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  hadn't  best.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  budge  a 
blessed  step  out  o'  this  here  room  tell  I  know  whal 
ails  you.  Not  if  I  have  to  stay  here  tell  daylight." 
After  a  brief  reflection  she  added — "  Now,  don't 
you  tell  me  he's  been  cuttin'  up  any  !  I  always 
said  he  was  a  fine  young  man,  an'  I  say  so  still." 

"  He  ain't  been  cuttin'  up  any,"  said  Zarelda. 
'  'At  least,  not  as  I  know  of. ' ' 

She  laid  down  the  brush  and  pushing  her  hah 
all  back  with  both  hands,  fronted  her  mother  sud 
denly,  pale  but  resolute. 

"  If  you  want  to  know  so  bad,"  she  said,  "I'll 
tell  you.  He's  threw  off  on  me." 

Mrs.  Winser  sunk  helplessly  into  a  chair. 
"  Threw  off  on  you  !  "  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  threw  off  on  me."     Zarelda  kept  hei 


'97 


ZARKI.DA 

dry,  burning  eyes  on  her  mother's  face.  "  D' 
you  feel  any  better  for  makin'  me  tell  it  ?  " 

Certainly  her  revenge  for  the  persecution  was 
all  that  heart  could  desire.  Her  mother  sat  limp 
and  motionless,  save  for  the  slow,  mechanical 
sliding  back  and  forth  of  one  thumb  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair. 

After  a  while  Zarelda  resumed  the  hair-brush 
ing,  calmly.  Then  her  mother  revived. 

"  Who  —  who  in  the  name  of  all  that's  merci 
ful  has  he  took  up  with  now  ? ' '  she  asked,  weakly. 

"EmBrackett." 

"What!"  Mrs.  Winser  almost  screamed. 
"That  onery  hussy!  'Reldy  Winser,  be  you 
a-tellin'  me  the  truth?" 

* '  Yes,  maw.  He  took  her  to  the  dance  up  at 
Canemah  las'  night,  an'  she  told  me  about  it  this 
mornin  !" 

"The  deceitful  jade.  Smiled  sweet  as  honey 
at  me  when  she  went  by.  You'd  of  thought 
sugar  wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth.  I  answered 
her  's  short  as  lard  pie-crust  —  I'm  glad  of  it 
now.  Has  he  took  her  any  place  else?" 

"He  took  her  walkin'  at  noontime.  Stepped 
right  up  when  she  was  standin'  alongside  o'  me 
an'  never  looked  at  me,  an'  ast  her  —  right  out 
loud  so's  all  of  'em  could  hear,  too." 

"Well,  he'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  hisself ! 
After  bein'  your  stiddy  comp'ny  for  more'n  a  year 
198 


—  well  onto  two  years  — an'  a-lettin'   all  of  us 
think  he  was  serious  !" 

"  He  never  said  he  was,  maw." 
4 '  He  never  $aid  he  was,  aigh  ?     'Reldy  Winser, 
you  ain't  got  enough  spunk  to  keep  a  chicken 
alive,  let  alone  a  woman  !     '  He  never  said  he 
was, ''aigh?     Well,  ain't  he  been  a-comin'    here 
three   nights   a  week   nigh  onto  two   year,   an' 
a-takin'  you  every  place,  an'  never  a-lookin'  at 
any   other   girl?     An'    didn't  he   give    you   an 
amyfist  ring  las'  Christmas,  an'  a  reel  garnet  pin 
on  your  birthday?     An'  didn't  he  come  here  one 
evenin',  a-laffin'  an'  a-actin'  up  foolish  in  a  great 
way   an'    holler    out— 'Hello,    maw    Winser?' 
Now,  don't  you  go  a-tellin'  me  he  never  meant 
anything  serious." 

"Well,  he  never  said  so,"  said  the  girl,  stub 
bornly. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  never  said  so.  He  acted 
so.  Why,  for  pity's  sake  !  You've  got  a  grease- 
spot  on  your  dress.  I  never  see  you  with  a 
grease-spot  before  — you're  so  tidy.  How'd  you 
get  it  on?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Benzine  '11  take  it  out.  Well  — I'm  a-goin' 
to  give  him  a  piece  o'  my  mind  !" 

Zarelda  lifted  her  body  suddenly.  She  looked 
tall.  Her  eyes  flamed  out  their  proud  fire. 

"Now,  see  here,  maw,"  she  said,  "you  don't 
199 


ZARE^DA 

say  a  word  to  him  —  not  a  word.  This  ain't 
your  affair  ;  it's  mine.  It's  the  fashion  in  fact'ry 
society  for  a  girl  an'  a  fellow  to  go  together,  an' 
give  each  other  things,  without  bein'  real  en 
gaged  ;  an'  she  has  to  take  her  chances  o'  some 
other  girl  gettin'  him  away  from  her.  If  he 
wants  to  throw  off  on  her,  all  he's  got  to  do  's  to 
take  some  other  girl  to  a  dance  or  out  walkin'. 
An'  then,  if  he's  give  her  a  ring  or  anything,  it's 
etiquette  for  her  to  send  it  back  to  him,  an'  he'll 
most  likely  give  it  to  the  other  girl.  I  don't  think 
it's  right,  an'  I  don't  say  but  what  it's  hard  —  " 
her  voice  trembled  and  broke,  but  she  conquered 
her  emotion  stubbornly  and  went  on —  "  but  it's 
the  way  in  fact'ry  society.  There  ain't  a  girl  in 
the  fact'ry  but  what's  had  to  stand  it  some  time 
or  other,  an'  I  guess  I  can.  You  don't  want  me 
to  be  a  laffin'-stawk,  do  you  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't."  Her  mother  looked  at  her  in 
a  kind  of  admiring  despair.  "  But  I  never  hear 
tell  of  such  fashions  an'  such  doin's  in  all  my 
born  days.  It's  shameful.  Your  paw  an'  me 
'd  set  our  minds  on  your  a-marryin'  him  an'  get- 
tin'  a  home  o'  your  own.  It's  been  a  burden  off 
o'  our  minds  for  a  year  past — " 

"Oh,  maw!" 

"  Just  to  feel  that  you'd  be  fixed  so's  you  could 
take  care  o'  your  little  sisters  in  case  we  dropped 
off.  An'  there  I've  went  an'  made  up  all  them 

200 


ZAREI,DA 

tmderclo's !"  She  leaned  her  head  upon  her 
hand  and  sat  looking  at  the  floor  with  a  forlornly 
reminiscent  expression.  "An'  put  tattin'  on 
three  sets,  an'  crochet  lace  on  three,  an'  serpen 
tine  edgin'  on  three.  An'  inserting  on  all  of  'em  ! 
That  ain't  the  worst  of  it.  Iv'e  worked  his  initial 
in  button-hole  stitch  on  every  blessed  thing  !" 

"  Oh,  maw,  you  never  did  that,  did  you?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  An'  what's  more,  I  showed 
'em  all  to  old  Miss  Bradley,  too." 

"You  might  just  as  well  of  showed  'em  to  the 
whole  town  !"  said  poor  Zarelda,  bitterly. 

"They  looked  so  nice  I  had  to  show  'em  to 
somebody." 

"  Sister,"  piped  a  little  voice  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  "  Mis'  Riley's  boy  's  come  to  find  out  how 
soon  you're  a-comin'  over  to  set  up  with  the  sick 
baby." 

"Oh,  I'd  clear  forgot."  Zarelda  braided  her 
hair  rapidly.  "Tell  him  I'll  be  over  'n  a  few 
minutes." 

"Now,  see  here,  'Reldy,"  said  her  mother, 
getting  upland  laying  her  hand  affectionately  on 
the  girl's  arm,  "you  ain't  a-goin'  to  budge  a 
single  step  over  there  to-night.  You  just  get  to 
bed  an'  put  an  arnicky  plaster  on  your  fore 
head—" 

Zarelda  laughed  in  a  kind  of  miserable  mirth. 


201 


11  Oh,  you  can  laff,  but  it'll  help  lots.  I'll  go 
over  an'  set  up  with  that  baby  myself." 

"No,  you  won't,  maw."  She  slipped  the  last 
pin  in  her  hair  and  set  her  hat  firmly  on  the 
glistening  braids.  "I  said  I'd  set  up  with  the 
baby,  an'  I  will.  I  ain't  goin'  to  shirk  just  be 
cause  I'm  in  trouble." 

She  went  out  into  the  cool  autumn  twilight. 
Her  mother  followed  her  and  stood  looking  after 
her  with  sympathetic  eyes.  At  last  she  turned 
and  went  slowly  into  the  poor  and  gloomy  house  ; 
as  she  closed  the  door  she  put  all  her  bitterness 
and  disappointment  into  one  heavy  sigh. 

The  roar  of  the  Falls  came  loudly  to  Zarelda 
as  she  walked  along  rapidly.  The  dog-fennel 
was  still  in  blossom,  and  its  greenish  snow  was 
drifted  high  on  both  sides  of  her  path.  Still 
higher  were  billows  of  everlasting  flowers,  undu 
lating  in  the  soft  wind.  The  fallen  leaves  rustled 
mournfully  as  she  walked  through  them.  Some 
cows  were  feeding  on  the  commons  near  by ;  she 
heard  their  deep  breathing  on  the  grass  before 
they  tore  and  crushed  it  with  their  strong  teeth  ; 
she  smelled  their  warm,  fragrant  breaths. 

She  came  to  a  narrow  bridge  under  the  cotton- 
woods  where  she  saw  the  Willamette,  silver  and 
beautiful,  moving  slowly  and  noiselessly  between 
its  emerald  walls.  The  slender,  yellow  sickle  of 
the  new  moon  quivered  upon  its  bosom. 

202 


ZAREXDA 

Zarelda  stood  still.  The  noble  beauty  of  the 
night  —  all  its  tenderness,  all  its  beating  pas 
sion  —  shook  her  to  the  soul.  Her  life  stretched 
out  before  her,  hard  and  narrow  as  the  little  path 
running  through  the  dog-fennel  —  a  life  of  toil 
and  duty,  of  clamor  and  unrest,  of  hurried  break 
fasts,  cold  lunches  and  half-warm  suppers,  of 
longing  for  knowledge  that  would  never  be 
hers  —  the  hard  and  bitter  treadmill  of  the  factory 
life. 

A  sob  came  up  into  her  dry  throat,  but  it  did 
not  reach  her  lips. 

"I  won't!"  she  said,  setting  her  teeth  to 
gether  hard.  "I  hate  people  who  whine  after 
what  they  can't  have,  instead  o'  makin'  the  best 
o'  what  they've  got." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  went  on.  Her  face  was 
beautiful ;  something  sweeter  than  moonlight 
shone  upon  it.  She  walked  proudly  and  the  dry 
leaves  whirled  behind  her. 


203 


IN  THE  BITTEK  ROOT  MOOTTTAIKS 


IN  THE  BITTER  ROOT  MOUNTAINS 

"  Go  slow,  boys,  for  God's  sake  !  If  we  miss 
this  landing,  we  are  lost.  The  rapids  begin  just 
around  that  bend." 

Four  men  stood  upon  a  rude  raft,  and  with 
roughly -made  oars  and  long  fir  poles  were  trying 
to  guide  it  out  of  the  current  of  the  swollen  Clear- 
water  River  into  a  small  sheltered  inlet. 

Both  shores  of  the  river  rose  abruptly  to  steep 
and  terrible  mountains.  Not  far  above  was  the 
snow-line. 

The  men's  faces  were  white  and  haggard,  their 
eyes  anxious,  half  desperate.  Huddled  upon  a 
stretcher  at  one  end  of  the  raft  was  a  young  man, 
little  more  than  a  boy,  whose  pallid,  emaciated 
face  was  turned  slightly  to  one  side.  His  eyes 
were  closed ;  the  long  black  lashes  lay  like 
heavy  shadows  upon  his  cheeks.  The  weak 
November  sunshine,  struggling  over  the  fierce 
mountains,  shone  through  his  thin  nostrils, 
turning  them  pink,  and  giving  an  unearthly 
look  to  the  face.  A  collie  crouched  close  be 
side  him,  shivering  with  fear,  yet  ever  and  anon 
licking  the  cold  hand  lying  outside  the  gray 
blanket;  occasionally  he  lifted  his  head  and 

207 


IN  THE  BITTER  ROOT  MOUNTAINS 

uttered  a  long,  mournful  howl.  Each  time  the 
four  men  shuddered  and  exchanged  looks  of  de 
spair, —  so  humanly  appealing  was  it,  and  so 
deeply  did  it  voice  the  terrible  dread  in  their  ovrn 
hearts. 

It  was  now  two  months  since  they  had  left  Se 
attle  on  a  hunting  expedition  in  the  Bitter  Root 
Mountains  in  Idaho.  For  six  weeks  they  had 
been  lost  in  those  awful  snow  fastnesses.  Their 
hunting  dogs  had  been  killed  by  wild  beasts. 
Their  twelve  pack-ponies  had  been  left  to  starve 
to  death  when,  finding  further  progress  on  land 
impossible  on  account  of  the  snow,  they  constructed 
a  raft  and  started  on  their  perilous  journey  down 
the  Clearwater. 

The  cook  had  been  sick  almost  the  entire  time, 
and  their  progress  had  been  necessarily  slow  and 
discouraging.  They  had  now  reached  a  point 
where  the  river  was  so  full  of  boulders  and  so 
swift  that  they  could  proceed  no  farther  on  the 
raft. 

For  several  days  the  cook  had  been  unconscious, 
lying  in  a  speechless  stupor ;  but  when  they  had, 
with  much  danger  and  excitement,  landed  and 
made  him  comfortable  in  a  protected  nook,  he 
suddenly  spoke,  —  faintly  but  distinctly. 

"Polly,"  he  said,  with  deep  tenderness,  "lay 
your  hand  on  my  head.  I  guess  it  won't  ache  so, 
then." 

208 


IN  THE   BITTKR  ROOT  MOUNTAINS 

The  four  men,  looking  at  him,  grew  wrr'-~r. 
They  could  not  look  at  each  other.  The  dog,  hav 
ing  already  taken  his  place  beside  him,  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  at  him  with  pitiable  eagerness. 

"Oh,  Polly  !" —  there  was  a  heart-break  in  the 
voice, — "you  don't  know  what  I've  suffered! 
The  cold,  and  then  the  fever  !  The  pain  has  been 
awful.  Oh,  I've  wanted  you  so,  Polly  —  I've 
wanted  you  so  !  .  .  .  But  it's  all  right,  now 
that  I'm  home  again.  .  .  .  Where's  the  baby, 
Polly?  Oh,  the  nights  that  I've  laid,  freezing 
and  suffering  in  the  snow,  just  kept  alive  by  the 
thought  o'  you  an'  the  little  man  !  I  knew  it 
'u'd  kill  you  'f  I  died — so  I  wVafoVgive  up  !  An' 
now  I'm  here 't  home  again.  Polly " 

"We  must  fix  some  supper,  boys,"  said  Dar 
nell,  roughly,  turning  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 
"Let's  get  the  fire  started." 

"We've  just  got  enough  for  one  more  good 
meal,"  said  Roberts,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"There's  no  game  around  here,  either.  Guide, 
you  must  try  to  find  a  way  out  of  this  before 
dark,  so  we  can  start  early  in  the  morning." 

Without  speaking,  the  guide  obeyed.  It  was 
dark  when  he  returned.  The  men  were  sit 
ting  by  the  camp-fire,  eating  their  supper.  The 
dog  still  lay  by  his  master,  from  whom  even  hun 
ger  could  not  tempt  him. 

The  three  men  looked  at  the  guide.     He  sat 

209 


IN  THK   BITTER   ROOT   MOUNTAINS 

down   and   took   his   cup   of    coffee    in   silence. 
11  Well,"  said  Darnell,  at  last,  "can  we  go  on  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  guide,  slowly;  "we  can.  In 
some  places  there'll  be  only  a  few  inches'  foot 
hold  ;  an'  we'll  hev  to  hang  on  to  bushes  up 
above  us,  with  the  river  in  some  places  hundreds 
o'  feet  below  ;  but  we  can  do  it,  'f  we  don't  get 
rattled  an'  lose  our  heads." 

There  was  a  deep  and  significant  silence.  Then 
Brotlierton  said,  with  white  lips,  "Do  you  mean 
that  we  can't  take  him  ?  " 

"That's  what  I  mean."  The  guide  spoke  de- 
ftberately.  He  could  not  lift  his  eyes.  Some  of 
the  coffee  spilled  as  he  lifted  the  cup  to  his  lips. 
"We  can't  take  a  thing,  'cept  our  hands  and 
feet, —  not  even  a  blanket.  It'll  be  life  an'  death 
to  do  it,  then." 

There  was  another  silence.  At  last  Darnell  said  : 
"Then  it  is  for  us  to  decide  whether  we  shall 
leave  him  to  die  alone  while  we  save  ourselves, 
or  stay  and  die  with  him  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  the  guide. 

' '  There  is  positively  not  the  faintest  chance  oi 
getting  him  out  with  us  ?  " 

"By  God,  no!"  burst  forth  the  guide,  pas 
sionately.  ' '  It  seems  like  puttin'  the  responsi 
bility  on  me,  but  you  want  the  truth,  an'  that's 
it.  He  can't  be  got  out.  It's  leave  him  an'  save 
ourselves,  or  stay  with  him  an'  starve." 
210 


IN   THE    BITTER   ROOT   MOUNTAINS 

After  a  long  while  Roberts  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 
"  He's  unconscious.  He  wouldn't  know  we  had 
gone." 

"He  cannot  possibly  live  three  days,  under 
any  circumstances, ' '  said  Brotherton.  ' '  Mor 
tification  has  already  begun  in  his  legs." 
"  Good  God!"  exclaimed  Darnell,  jumping  up 
and  beginning  to  walk  rapidly  forth  and  back, 
before  the  fire.  "I  must  go  home,  boys!  My 
wife  —  when  I  think  of  her,  I  am  afraid  of  losing 
my  reason  !  When  I  think  what  she  is  suffer 
ing " 

Brotherton  looked  at  him.  Then  he  sunk  his 
face  into  both  his  hands.  He,  too,  had  a  wife.  The 
guide  put  down  his  coffee  ;  large  tears  came  into 
his  honest  eyes.  He  had  no  wife,  but  there  was 
one 

Roberts  got  up  suddenly.  He  had  the  look  of 
a  tortured  animal  in  his  eyes.  "  Boys,"  he  said, 
"  my  wife  is  dead.  My  life  doesn't  matter  so 
much,  but  —  I've  three  little  girls!  I  must  get 
back,  somehow  !  " 

The  sick  man  spoke.  They  all  started  guiltily, 
and  looked  toward  him.  "Yes,  yes,  Polly,"  he 
said,  soothingly,  "  I  know  how  you  worried  about 
me.  I  know  how  you  set  strainin'  your  eyes  out 
the  window  day  an'  night,  watchin'  fer  me.  But 
now  I'm  home  again,  an'  it's  all  right.  I  guess 
you  prayed,  Polly  ;  an'  I  guess  God  heard  you. 

211 


11*  TILE   BITTER   ROOT   MOUNTAINS 

.    .    There's  a  boy  fer  you  !     He  knows  me, 
x>." 

The  silence  that  fell  upon  them  was  long  and 
terrible.  The  guide  arose  at  last,  and,  without 
speaking,  made  some  broth  from  the  last  of  the 
canned  beef,  and  forced  it  between  the  sick  man's 
lips.  When  he  came  back  to  the  fire,  Darnell 
took  a  silver  dollar  out  of  his  pocket. 

*  *  Boys, ' '  he  said,  brokenly,  * '  I  don't  want  to 
be  the  one  to  settle  this,  and  I  guess  none  of  you 
do.    It  is  an  awful  thing  to  decide.    I  shall  throw 
this  dollar  high  into  the  air.    If  it  falls  heads  up, 
we  go  ;  tails  —  we  stay. ' ' 

The  men  had  lifted  their  heads  and  were  watch 
ing  him.  They  were  all  very  white  ;  they  were  all 
trembling. 

*  'Are  you  willing  to  decide  it  in  this  way  ?  '* 
Each  answered,  ' '  Yes. ' ' 

"  I  swear,"  said  Darnell,  slowly  and  solemnly, 
' '  that  I  will  abide  by  this  decision.  Do  you  all 
swear  the  same?" 

Each,  in  turn,  took  the  oath.  Trembling  now 
perceptibly,  Darnell  lifted  his  hand  slowly  and 
cast  the  piece  of  silver  into  the  air.  Their  eyes 
followed  its  shining  course.  For  a  second  it  dis 
appeared  ;  then  it  came  singing  to  the  earth. 

Like  drunken  men  they  staggered  to  the  spot 
where  it  had  fallen,  and  fell  upon  their  knees, 
staring  with  straining  eyes  and  bloodless  lips, 
212 


IN  THE  BITTER  ROOT  MOUNTAINS 

"It  is  heads,"  said  Darnell.  He  wiped  the 
cold  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

At  that  moment  the  dog  lifted  his  head  and 
sent  a  long,  mournful  howl  to  die  in  faint  echoes 
in  the  mountains  across  the  river. 

At  daylight  they  were  ready  to  start.  Snow 
lay  on  the  ground  to  a  depth  of  six  inches.  But 
a  terrible  surprise  awaited  them.  At  the  last  mo 
ment  they  discovered  that  the  cook  was  conscious. 

"You're  not  going  —  to  leave  me?"  he  said, 
in  a  whisper.  His  eyes  seemed  to  be  leaping  out 
of  their  hollow  sockets  with  terror. 

"  Only  fora  few  hours,"  said  Brotherton,  husk 
ily.  "  Only  to  find  a  way  out  of  this, —  to  make 
a  path  over  which  we  can  carry  you. ' ' 

"Oh,"  he  said,  faintly;  "I  thought but 

you  wouldn't.  In  the  name  o'  God,  don't  leave 
me  to  die  alone  !  " 

They  assured  him  that  they  would  soon  return. 
Then,  making  him  as  comfortable  as  possible, 
they  went, —  without  hesitation,  without  one 
backward  look.  There  was  no  noise.  The  snow 
fell  softly  and  silently  through  the  firs  ;  the  river 
flowed  swiftly  through  its  wild  banks.  The  sick 
man  lay  with  closed  eyes,  trustfully.  But  the 
dog  knew.  For  the  first  time  he  left  his  master. 
He  ran  after  them,  and  threw  himself  before  them, 
moaning.  His  lifted  eyes  had  a  soul  in  them. 

•13 


IN  THB   BITTER   ROOT   MOUNTAINS 

He  leaped  before  them,  and  upon  them,  licking 
their  hands  and  clothing  ;  he  cast  himself  prone 
upon  their  feet,  like  one  praying.  No  human 
being  ever  entreated  for  his  life  so  passionately, 
so  pathetically,  as  that  dog  pleaded  for  his  mas 
ter's. 

At  last,  half  desperate  as  they  were,  they 
kicked  him  savagely  and  flung  him  off.  With  a 
look  in  his  eyes  that  haunted  them  as  long  as 
they  lived,  he  retreated  then  to  his  master's  side, 
and  lay  down  in  a  heavy  huddle  of  despair, 
still  watching  them.  As  they  disappeared,  he 
lifted  his  head,  and  for  the  last  time  they  heard 
that  long,  heart-breaking  howl. 

It  was  answered  by  a  coyote  in  the  canyon 
above. 

A  week  later  the  Associated  Press  sent  out  the 
following  dispatch : 

"The  Darnell  party,  who  were  supposed  to  have  per 
ished  in  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains,  returned  last  night. 
Their  hardships  and  sufferings  were  terrible.  There  is 
great  rejoicing  over  their  safe  return.  They  were  com 
pelled  to  leave  the  cook,  who  had  been  sick  the  entire 
time,  to  die  in  the  mountains.  But  for  their  determined 
efforts  to  bring  him  out  alive,  they  would  certainly  have 
returned  a  month  earlier." 

The  world  read  the  dispatch  and  rejoiced  with 
those   rejoicing.     But   one   woman,    reading  it, 
fell,  as  one  dead,  beside  her  laughing  boy. 
214 


PATIENCE  APPIfBByS  CONFBSSHTO-UP 


PATIENCE  APPI,EBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

"  It  must  be  goin'  to  rain  !  My  arm  aches  me 
so  I  can  hardly  hold  my  knitting  needles." 

"Hunh!"  said  Mrs.  Wincoop.  She  twisted 
her  thread  around  her  fingers  two  or  three  times 
to  make  a  knot;  then  she  held  her  needle  up  to 
the  light  and  threaded  it,  closing  one  eye  entirely 
and  the  other  partially,  and  pursing  her  mouth 
until  her  chin  was  flattened  and  foil  of  tiny 
wrinkles.  She  lowered  her  head  and  looking  at 
Mrs.  Willis  over  her  spectacles  with  a  kind  of 
good-natured  scorn,  said —  "Is  that  a  sign  ©' 
rain?" 

'  *  It  never  fails."  Mrs.  Willis  rocked  back  and 
forth  comfortably.  "I,ike  as  not  it  begins  to 
ache  me  a  whole  week  before  it  rains." 

*  *  I  never  hear  tell  o'  such  a  thing  in  all  my 
days,"  said  Mrs.  Wincoop,  with  unmistakable 
signs  of  firmness,  as  she  bent  over  the  canton 
flannel  night-shirt  she  was  making  for  Mr.  Win- 
coop. 

"Well,  mebbe  you  never.     Mebbe  you  never 
had  the  rheumatiz.     I've  had  it  twenty  year. 
I  can't  get  red  of  it,  anyways.     I've  tried  the 
217 


Century  liniment  —  the  one  that  has  the  man 
riding  over  snakes  an'  things  —  and  the  arnicky, 
and  ev'ry  kind  the  drug-store  keeps.  I've  wore 
salt  in  my  shoes  tell  they  turned  white  all  over  ; 
and  I  kep'  a  buckeye  in  my  pocket  tell  it  wore  a 
hole  and  fell  out.  But  I  never  get  red  o'  the 
rheumatiz." 

Mrs.  Wincoop  took  two  or  three  stitches  in 
silence;  then  she  said —  "  Patience,  now,  she  can 
talk  o'  having  rheumatiz.  She's  most  bent  in 
two  with  it  when  she  has  it  — and  that's  near  all 
the  time." 

The  rocking  ceased  abruptly.  Mrs.  Willis's 
brows  met,  giving  a  look  of  sternness  to  her  face. 

1  'That's  a  good  piece  o'  cotton  flannel,"  she 
said.  "Hefty!  Fer  pity's  sake!  D' you  put 
ruffles  on  the  bottom  o'  Mr.  Wincoop's  night 
shirt  ?  Whatever  d'you  do  that  fer  ?" 

"Because  he  likes  'em  that  way,"  responded 
Mrs.  Wincoop,  tartly.  "There's  no  call  fer  re 
marks  as  I  see,  Mis'  Willis.  You  put  a  pockel 
'n  Mr.  Willis's,  and  paw  never'd  have  that  — 
never !' '  firmly. 

"Well,  I  never  see  ruffles  on  a  man's  night 
shirt  before."  said  Mrs.  Willis,  laughing  rathei 
aggravatingly.  * '  But  they  do  look  reel  pretty, 
anyways. ' ' 

"The  longer  you  live  the  more  you  learn." 
Mis.  Wincoop  spoke  condescendingly.  "Bui 
218 


PATIENCE  APPLEBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

talking  about  Patience  — have  you  see  her  lately  ?' ' 

"No,  I  ain't."  Mrs.  Willis  got  up  suddenly 
and  commenced  rummaging  about  on  the  table  ; 
there  were  two  red  spots  on  her  thin  face.  "  I'd 
most  fergot  to  show  you  my  new  winter  under- 
clo's.  Ain't  them  nice  and  warm,  though? 
They  feel  so  good  to  my  rheumatiz.  I  keep  think 
ing  about  them  that  can't  get  any.  My,  such 
hard  times  !  All  the  banks  broke,  and  no  more 
prospect  of  good  times  than  of  a  hen's  being 
hatched  with  teeth  !  It  puts  me  all  of  a  trimble 
to  think  o'  the  winter  here  and  ev'rybody  so  hard 
up.  It's  a  pretty  pass  we've  come  to." 

"  I  should  say  so.  I  don't  see  what  Patience 
is  a-going  to  live  on  this  winter.  She  ain't  fit  to 
do  anything  ;  her  rheumatiz  is  awful.  She  ain't 
got  any  fine  wool  underclo's." 

Mrs.  Willis  sat  down  again,  but  she  did  not 
rock  ;  she  sat  upright,  holding  her  back  stiff  and 
her  thin  shoulders  high  and  level. 

"  I  guess  this  tight  spell  '11  learn  folks  to  lay  by 
money  when  they  got  it,"  she  said,  sternly.  "I 
notice  we  ain't  got  any  mortgage  on  our  place, 
and  I  notice  we  got  five  thousand  dollars  in 
vested.  We  got  some  cattle  besides.  We  ain't 
frittered  ev'ry thing  we  made  away  on  foolishness, 
like  some  that  I  know  of.  We  have  things  good 
and  comf  'terble,  but  we  don't  put  on  any  style. 
I,ook  at  that  Mis'  Abernathy  !  I  caught  her 

219 


PATIENCE  APPLEBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

teeheeing  behind  my  back  when  I  was  buying 
red  checked  table  clo's.  Her  husband  a  book 
keeper  !  And  her  a-putting  on  airs  over  me  that 
could  buy  her  up  any  day  in  the  week  !  Now, 
he's  lost  his  place,  and  I  reckon  she'll  come  down 
a  peg  or  two." 

"She's  been  reel  good  to  Patience,  anyways," 
said  Mrs.  Wincoop. 

Mrs.  Willis  knitted  so  fast  her  needles  fairly 
rasped  together. 

"She  takes  her  in  jell  and  perserves  right 
frequent.  You  mind  Patience  always  liked  sweet 
things  even  when  her  'n'  lyizy  was  girls  together, 
Eunice." 

It  was  so  unusual  for  one  of  these  two  women 
to  speak  the  other's  name  that  they  now  ex 
changed  quick  looks  of  surprise.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Wincoop  seemed  the  more  surprised  of  the  two. 
But  the  hard,  matter-of-fact  expression  returned 
at  once  to  each  face.  If  possible,  Mrs.  Willis 
looked  more  grim  and  sour  than  before  the  un 
wonted  address  had  startled  her  out  of  her  com 
posure. 

"Well,"  she  said,  scarcely  unclosing  her  thin 
lips,  * '  I  reckon  she  had  all  the  sweet  things  she 
was  a-hankering  after  when  she  was  a  girl.  I 
reckon  she  had  a  plenty  and  to  spare,  and  I  ex 
pect  they  got  to  tasting  pretty  bitter  a  good  spell 
ago.  Too  much  sweet  always  leaves  a  bit'rish 
220 


PATIENCE   APPLEBV'S   CONFESSING-UP 

taste  in  the  mouth.  My  religion  ie  —  do  what's 
right,  and  don't  wink  at  them  that  does  wrong. 
I've  stuck  to  my  religion.  I  reckon  you  can't 
get  anybody  to  stand  up  and  put  their  finger  on 
anything  wrong  I've  done  —  nor  any  of  my  fam- 
bly,  either."  Mrs.  Wincoop  put  her  hand  on  her 
chest  and  coughed  mournfully.  "  I/et  them  that's 
sinned,"  went  on  Mrs.  Willis,  lifting  her  pale, 
cold  eyes  and  setting  them  full  on  her  visitor, 
''make  allowance  fer  sinners,  say  I.  Mis'  Abei- 
nathy,  or  Mis'  Anybody  Else,*can  pack  all  the 
clo's  and  all  the  sweet  things  they've  got  a  mind  to 
over  to  Patience  Appleby  ;  mebbe  they've  sinned, 
too  —  /don't  know!  But  I  do  know  that  I 
ain't,  and  so  I  don't  pack  things  over  to  her,  even 
if  she  is  all  doubled  up  with  the  rheumatiz,"  un 
consciously  imitating  Mrs.  Wincoop's  tone.  ' 'And 
I  don't  make  no  allowance  for  her  sins,  either, 
Mis'  Wincoop." 

A  faint  color  came  slowly,  as  if  after  careful 
consideration,  to  Mrs.  Wincoop's  face. 

"There  wa'n't  no  call  fer  you  a-telling  that," 
she  said,  with  a  great  calmness.  "The  whole 
town  knows  you  wouldn't  fergive  a  sin,  if  your 
fergiving  it  'u'  d  save  the  sinner  hisself  from  being 
lost  !  The  whole  town  knows  what  your  religion 
is,  Mis'  Willis.  You  set  yourself  up  and  call 
yourself  perfeck,  and  wrap  yourself  up  in  your 
self—" 

221 


PATIENCE  APPIvKBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

11  There  come  the  men  —  sh  !"  said  Mrs.  Willis. 
Her  face  relaxed,  but  with  evident  reluctance. 
She  began  to  knit  industriously.  But  the  temp 
tation  to  have  the  last  word  was  strong. 

"It  ain't  my  religion,  either,"  she  said,  her 
voice  losing  none  of  its  determination  because 
it  was  lowered.  "  I'd  of  fergive  her  if  she'd  a-con- 
fessed  up.  We  all  tried  to  get  her  to.  I  tried 
more  'n  anybody.  I  told  her" — in  a  tone  of 
conviction — "that  nobody  but  a  brazen  thing 
'u'd  do  what  she'd  done  and  not  confess  up  to  't 
—  and  it  never  fazed  her.  She  wouldn't  confess 
up." 

The  men  were  scraping  their  feet  noisily  now 
on  the  porch,  and  Mrs.  Willis  leaned  back  with  a 
satisfied  expression,  expecting  no  reply.  But 
Mrs,  Wincoop  surprised  her.  She  was  sewing 
the  last  pearl  button  on  Mr.  Wincoop 's  night 
shirt,  and  as  she  drew  the  thread  through  and 
fastened  it  with  scrupulous  care,  she  said,  with 
out  looking  up  —  "I  don't  take  much  stock  in 
confessings  myself,  Mis'  Willis.  I  don't  see  just 
how  confessings  is  good  for  the  soul  when  they 
hurt  so  many  innocent  ones  as  well  as  the  guilty 
ones.  Ev'  ry  confessing  affex  somebody  else  ;  and 
so  I  say  if  you  repent  and  want  to  atone  you  can 
do  't  without  confessing  and  bringing  disgrace  on 
others.  It's  nothing  but  curiosity  that  makes 
people  holler  out  —  *  Confess-up  now  1  Confess- 
222 


APPI^BY'S  CONFSSSING-UP 


up  now.'  It  ain't  anybody's  business  but  God's 
—  and  I  reckon  He  knows  when  a  body's  sorry 
he's  sinned  and  wants  to  do  better,  and  I  reckon 
He  helps  him  just  as  much  as  if  he  got  up  on  a 
church  tower  and  kep'  a-hollering  out  —  'Oh, 
good  grieve,  I've  sinned!  I've  sinned!'  —  so  's 
the  whole  town  could  run  and  gap'  at  him  !  Mis' 
Willis,  if  some  confessing-ups  was  done  in  this 
town  that  I  know  of,  some  people  'u'd  be  affected 
that  'u'd  surprise  you."  Then  she  lifted  up  her 
voice  cheerfully  —"That  you,  father  ?  Well,  d' 
you  bring  the  lantern  ?  I  reckon  we'd  best  go 
right  home  ;  it's  getting  latish,  and  Mis'  Willis 
thinks,  from  the  way  her  arm  aches  her,  that  it's 
going  to  rain." 

Mrs.  Willis  sat  knitting  long  after  Mr.  Willis 
had  gone  to  bed.  Her  face  was  more  stern  even 
than  usual.  She  sat  uncomfortably  erect  and  did 
not  rock.  When  the  clock  told  ten,  she  arose 
stiffly  and  rolled  the  half  finished  stocking  around 
the  ball  of  yarn,  fastening  it  there  with  the  needles. 
Then  she  laid  it  on  the  table  and  stood  looking  at 
it  intently,  without  seeing  it.  "I  wonder,"  she 
said,  at  last,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  what  she 
was  a-driving  at  !  I'd  give  a  pretty  to  know." 


"Mother,  where's  my  Sund'y  pulse-warmers 
at?" 

223 


PATIKNCK  APPI^BY'S  CONFESSING-UP 


"  /don't  know  where  yourSund'y  pulse-warm 
ers  are  at.  Father,  you'd  aggravate  a  body  into 
her  grave  !  You  don't  half  look  up  anything  — 
and  then  begin  asking  me  where  it's  at.  What's 
under  that  bunch  o'  collars  in  your  drawer  ? 
L,ooks  some  like  your  Sund'y  pulse-  warmers,  don't 
it?  This  ain't  Sund'y,  anyways.  Wa'n't  your 
ev'ryday  ones  good  enough  to  wear  just  to  a 
church  meeting  ?'  ' 

Mr.  Willis  had  never  been  known  to  utter  an 
oath  ;  but  sometimes  he  looked  as  if  his  heart 
were  full  of  them. 

"I  reckon  you  don't  even  know  where  your 
han'ke'cher's  at,  father." 

1  *  Yes,  I  do,  mother.  I  guess  you  might  stop 
talking,  an*  come  on  now  —  I'm  all  ready." 

He  preceded  his  wife,  leaving  the  front  door 
open  for  her  to  close  and  lock.  He  walked  stiffly, 
holding  his  head  straight,  lest  his  collar  should 
cramp  his  neck  or  prick  his  chin.  He  had  a  con 
scious,  dressed-  up  air.  He  carried  in  one  hand  a 
lantern,  in  the  other  an  umbrella.  It  was  seven 
o'clock  of  a  Thursday  evening  and  the  bell  was 
ringing  for  prayer-meeting.  There  was  to  be  a 
church  meeting  afterward,  at  which  the  name  of 
Patience  Appleby  was  to  be  brought  up  for  mem 
bership.  Mrs.  Willis  breathed  hard  and  deep  as 
she  thought  of  it. 

She  walked  behind  her  husband  to  receive  the 

224 


PATIENCE  APPI<KBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

full  light  of  the  lantern,  holding  her  skirts  up 
high  above  her  gaiter-tops  which  were  so  large 
and  so  worn  as  to  elastic,  that  they  fairly  ruffled 
around  her  spare,  flat  ankles.  Her  shadow  danced 
in  piece-meal  on  the  picket  fence.  After  a  while 
she  said  — 

"  Father,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  swinging 
that  lantern  so  !  A  body  can't  see  where  to  put 
their  feet  down.  Who's  that  ahead  o'  us?" 

"  I  can't  make  out  yet." 

"  No  wonder  —  you  keep  swinging  that  lantern 
so  !  Father,  what  does  possess  you  to  be  so  aggra 
vating?  If  I'd  of  asked  you  to  swing  it,  you 
couldn't  of  b'en  drug  to  do  it !" 

Mrs.  Willis  was  guiltless  of  personal  vanity, 
but  she  did  realize  the  importance  of  her  position 
in  village  society,  and  something  of  this  impor 
tance  was  imparted  to  her  carriage  as  she  followed 
Mr.  Willis  up  the  church  aisle.  She  felt  that 
every  eye  was  regarding  her  with  respect,  and 
held  her  shoulders  so  high  that  her  comfortable 
shawl  fell  therefrom  in  fuller  folds  than  usual. 
She  sat  squarely  in  the  pew,  looking  steadily  and 
unwinkingly  at  the  wonderful  red  velvet  cross 
that  hung  over  the  spindle-legged  pulpit,  her 
hands  folded  firmly  in  her  lap.  She  had  never 
been  able  to  understand  how  Sister  Wirth  who 
sat  in  the  pew  in  front  of  the  Willises,  could  al 
ways  have  her  head  a-lolling  over  to  one  side  like 


PATI3NC3  APPI^BY'S  CONFESSING-UP 


a  giddy,  sixteen-year-old.  Mrs.  Willis  abomi 
nated  such  actions  in  a  respectable,  married 
woman  of  family. 

Mr.  Willis  crouched  down  uneasily  in  the  cor 
ner  of  the  seat  and  sat  motionless,  with  a  self- 
conscious  blush  across  his  weak  eyes.  His 
umbrella,  banded  so  loosely  that  it  bulged  like  a 
soiled-clothes  bag,  stood  up  against  the  back  of 
the  next  pew. 

At  the  close  of  prayer-meeting  no  one  stirred 
from  his  seat.  An  ominous  silence  fell  upon  the 
two  dozen  people  assembled  there.  The  clock 
ticked  loudly,  and  old  lady  Scranton,  who  suffered 
of  asthma,  wheezed  with  every  breath  an4  whis 
pered  to  her  neighbor  that  she  was  getting  so 
phthisicy  she  wished  to  mercy  they'd  hurry  up  or 
she'd  have  to  go  home  without  voting.  At  last 
one  of  the  deacons  arose  and  said  with  great 
solemnity  that  he  understood  sister  Wincoop  had 
a  name  to  propose  for  membership. 

When  Mrs.  Wincoop  stood  up  she  looked  pale 
but  determined.  Mrs.  Willis  would  not  turn  to 
look  at  her,  but  she  caught  every  word  spoken. 

1  '  Yes,  '  '  said  Mrs.  Wincoop,  '  '  I  want  to  bring 
up  the  name  of  Patience  Appleby.  I  reckon  you 
all  know  Patience  Appleby.  She  was  born  here, 
and  she's  always  lived  here.  There  's  them  that 
says  she  done  wrong  onct,  but  I  guess  she's 
about  atoned  up  for  that  —  if  any  mortal  living 

226 


PATIENCE  APPI,EBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

has.  I've  know  her  fifteen  year,  and  I  don't 
know  any  better  behaving  woman  anywheres. 
She  never  talks  about  anybody  " —  her  eyes  went 
to  Mrs.  Willis's  rigid  back — "and  she  never 
complains.  She's  alone  and  poor,  and  all  crippled, 
up  with  the  rheum atiz.  She  wants  to  join  church 
and  live  a  Christian  life,  and  I,  fer  one,  am  in  fa 
vor  o'  us  a-holding  out  our  hand  to  her  and  help 
ing  her  up." 

"  Amen  !"  shrilled  out  the  minister  on  one  of 
his  upper  notes.  There  was  a  general  rustle  of 
commendation  —  whispers  back  and  forth,  nod- 
dings  of  heads,  and  many  encouraging  glances 
directed  toward  sister  Wincoop. 

But  of  a  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  small  as 
sembly.  Mrs.  Willis  had  arisen.  Her  expression 
was  grim  and  uncompromising.  At  that  moment 
sister  Shidler's  baby  choked  in  its  sleep,  and  cried 
so  loudly  and  so  gaspingly  that  every  one  turned 
to  look  at  it 

In  the  momentary  confusion  Mr.  Willis  caught 
hold  of  his  wife's  dress  and  tried  to  pull  her  down  ; 
but  the  unfortunate  man  only  succeeded  in  rip 
ping  a  handful  of  gathers  from  the  band.  Mrs. 
Willis  looked  down  at  him  from  her  thin  height. 

' '  You  let  my  gethers  be, ' '  she  said,  fiercely. 
"You  might  of  knew  you'd  tear  'em,  a-taking 
holt  of  'em  that  way  !" 

Then  quiet  was  restored  and  the  wandering  eyes 

227 


PATIENCE  APFI^BY'S  CONFKSSING-UP 

came  back  to  Mrs.  Willis.  "  Brothers  and  sis 
ters/'  she  said,  "it  ain't  becoming  in  me  to 
remind  you  all  what  Mr.  Willis  and  me  have  done 
fer  this  church.  It  ain't  becoming  in  me  to  re 
mind  you  about  the  organ,  and  the  new  bell,  and 
the  carpet  fer  the  aisles  —  let  alone  our  paying 
twenty  dollars  more  a  year  than  any  other  mem 
ber.  I  say  it  ain't  becoming  in  me,  and  I  never 
'd  mention  it  if  it  wa'n't  that  I  don't  feel  like  hav 
ing  Patience  Appleby  in  this  church.  If  she  does 
come  in,  /go  out." 

A  tremor  passed  through  the  meeting.  The 
minister  turned  pale  and  stroked  his  meagre  whis 
kers  nervously.  He  was  a  worthy  man,  and  he 
believed  in  saving  souls.  He  had  prayed  and 
plead  with  Patience  to  persuade  her  to  unite  with 
the  church,  but  he  had  not  felt  the  faintest  pre 
sentiment  that  he  was  quarreling  with  his  own 
bread  and  butter  in  so  doing.  One  soul  scarcely 
balances  a  consideration  of  that  kind  —  especially 
when  a  minister  has  six  children  and  a  wife  with 
a  chronic  disinclination  to  do  any''  :  ig  but  look 
pretty  and  read  papers  at  clubs  and  things.  It 
was  small  wonder  that  he  turned  pale. 

"  I  want  that  you  all  should  know  just  how  I 
feel  about  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Willis.  "  I  believe 
in  doing  what's  right  yourself  and  not  excusing 
them  that  does  wrong.  I  don't  believe  in  having 
people  like  Patience  Appleby  in  this  church ;  and 


PATIKNCE  APPI^BY'S  CONFKSSING-UP 

she  don't  come  in  while  Pm  in,  neither.  That's 
all  I  got  to  say.  I  want  that  you  all  should  un 
derstand  plain  that  her  coming  in  means  my  going 
out." 

Mrs.  Willis  sat  down,  well  satisfied.  She  saw 
that  she  had  produced  a  profound  sensation. 
Every  eye  turned  to  the  minister  with  a  look  that 
said,  plainly  —  "  What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

But  the  miserable  man  had  not  a  word  to  say  to 
it.  He  sat  helplessly  stroking  his  whiskers,  try 
ing  to  avoid  the  eyes  of  both  Mrs.  Wincoop  and 
Mrs.  Willis.  At  last  Deacon  Berry  said  —  ' '  Why, 
sister  Willis,  I  think  if  a  body  repents  and  wants 
to  do  better,  the  church  'ad  ort  to  help  'em. 
That's  what  churches  are  for." 

Mrs.  Willis  cleared  her  throat. 

"  I  don't  consider  that  a  body's  repented,  Dea 
con  Berry,  tell  he  confesses-up.  Patience  Apple- 
by 's  never  done  that  to  this  day.  When  she  does, 
I'm  willing  to  take  her  into  this  church." 

* '  Brothers-  and  sisters, ' '  said  Mrs.  Wincoop,  in 
a  voice  that  held  a  kind  of  cautious  triumph,  "I 
fergot  to  state  that  Patience  Appleby  reckoned 
mebbe  somebody  'u'd  think  she'd  ort  to  confess 
before  she  come  into  the  church  ;  and  she  wanted 
I  should  ask  the  meeting  to  a'point  Mis'  Willis  a 
committee  o'  one  fer  her  to  confess  up  to.  Pati 
ence  reckoned  if  she  could  satisfy  Mis'  Willis, 
ev'rybody  else  'u'd  be  satisfied." 


PATIENCE   APPI,EBY'S   CONFESSING- UP 

"Why  —  yes,"  cried  the  minister,  with  cheer 
ful  eagerness.  "  That's  all  right  — bless  the 
I^ord  !  "  he  added,  in  that  jaunty  tone  with  which 
so  many  ministers  daily  insult  our  God.  *  *  I  know 
Mrs.  Willis  and  Patience  will  be  able  to  smooth 
over  all  difficulties.  I  think  we  may  now  ad 
journ." 

"Whatever  did  she  do  that  fer?"  said  Mrs. 
Willis,  following  the  lantern  homeward.  "She's 
got  something  in  her  mind,  /  know,  or  she'd 
never  want  me  a' p' in  ted.  Father,  what  made  you 
pull  my  gethers  out?  D'you  think  you  could 
make  me  set  down  when  I'd  once  made  up  my 
mind  to  stand  up?  You'd  ought  to  know  me 
better  by  this  time.  This  is  my  secon'-best  dress, 
and  I've  only  wore  it  two  winters  —  and  now 
look  at  all  these  gethers  tore  right  out ! ' ' 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  get  up  and  make  a  fool 
o'  yourself,  mother.  You'd  best  leave  Patience 
Appleby  be." 

"You'd  ort  to  talk  about  anybody  a-making  a 
fool  o'  hisself !  After  you  a-pulling  my  gethers 
clean  out  o'  the  band  —  right  in  meeting  !  You'  d 
ort  to  tell  me  I'd  best  leave  Patience  Appleby  be  ! 
I  don't  mean  to  leave  her  be.  I  mean  to  let  her 
know  she  can't  ac'  scandalous,  and  then  set  her 
self  up  as  being  as  good's  church  folks  and  Christ 
ians,  m  give  her  her  come-uppings  !  " 

For  probably  the  first  time  in  his  married  life 
230 


PATIENCE   APPLEBY  S  CONFESSING-UP 

Mr.  Willis  yielded  to  his  feelings.  "  God- 
a'mighty,  mother,"  he  said;  "sometimes  you 
don't  seem  to  have  common  sense !  I  reckon 
you'd  best  leave  Patience  Appleby  be,  if  you 
know  when  you're  well  off."  Then,  frightened 
at  what  he  had  said,  he  walked  on,  hurriedly, 
swinging  the  lantern  harder  than  ever. 
Mrs.  Willis  walked  behind  him,  dumb. 


The  day  was  cold  and  gray.  Mrs.  Willis 
opened  with  difficulty  the  broken-down  gate  that 
shut  in  Patience  Appleby 's  house.  "And  no 
wonder,"  she  thought,  "it  swags  down  so  !  " 

There  was  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground.  The 
path  to  the  old,  shabby  house  was  trackless.  Not 
a  soul  had  been  there  since  the  snow  fell — and  that 
was  two  days  ago  !  Mrs.  Willis  shivered  under 
her  warm  shawl. 

Patience  opened  the  door.  Her  slow,  heavy 
steps  on  the  bare  floor  of  the  long  hall  affected 
Mrs.  Willis  strangely. 

Patience  was  very  tall  and  thin.  She  stooped, 
and  her  chest  was  sunken.  She  wore  a  dingy 
gray  dress,  mended  in  many  places.  There  was 
a  small,  checked  shawl  folded  in  a  "three-cor 
nered"  way  about  her  shoulders.  She  coughed 
before  she  could  greet  her  visitor. 


231 


PATIENCE  APPIyEBY'S   CONFESSING-UP 

"  How  d'yoti  do,  Mis'  Willis,"  she  said,  at  last. 
"  Come  in,  won't  you  ?  " 

"How  are  you,  Patience?"  Mrs.  Willis  said, 
and,  to  her  own  amazement,  her  voice  did  not 
sound  as  stern  as  she  had  intended  it  should. 

She  had  been  practicing  as  she  came  along, 
and  this  voice  bore  no  resemblance  whatever  to 
the  one  she  had  been  having  in  her  mind.  Nor, 
as  she  preceded  Patience  down  the  bare,  draughty 
hall  to  the  sitting-room,  did  she  bear  herself  with 
that  degree  of  frigid  dignity  which  she  had  al 
ways  considered  most  fitting  to  her  position,  both 
socially  and  morally. 

Somehow,  the  evidences  of  poverty  on  every 
side  chilled  her  blood.  The  sitting-room  was 
worse,  even,  than  the  hall.  A  big,  empty  room 
with  a  small  fire-place  in  one  corner,  wherein  a 
few  coals  were  turning  gray;  a  threadbare  car 
pet,  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  little  table  with  the 
Bible  on  it,  ragged  wall-paper,  and  a  shelf  in  one 
corner  filled  with  liniment  bottles. 

Mrs.  Willis  sat  down  in  one  of  the  rickety 
chairs,  and  Patience,  after  stirring  up  the  coals, 
drew  the  other  to  the  hearth. 

"I'm  afraid  the  room  feels  kind  o*  coolish,"  she 
said.  "  I've  got  the  last  o'  the  coal  on." 

"D'you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Willis  —  and  again 
her  voice  surprised  her  —  "that  you're  all  out  o* 
coal?" 


PATIENCE  APPUSBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

"All  out."  She  drew  the  tiny  shawl  closer  to 
her  throat  with  trembling,  bony  fingers.  ' '  But 
Mis'  Abernathy  said  she'd  send  me  a  scuttleful 
over  today.  I  hate  to  take  it  from  her,  too  ;  her 
husband's  lost  his  position  and  they  ain't  overly 
well  off.  But  sence  my  rheumatiz  has  been  so 
bad  I  can't  earn  a  thing." 

Mrs.  Willis  stared  hard  at  the  coals.  For  the 
life  of  her  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  her 
own  basement  filled  to  the  ceiling  with  coal. 

"I  reckon,"  said  Patience,  "you've  come  to 
hear  my  confessing- up?" 

"Why  — yes."      Mrs.  Willis  started  guiltily. 

"  What's  the  charges  agen  me,  Mis'  Willis  ?  " 

Mrs.  Willis's  eyelids  fell  heavily. 

"Why,  I  reckon  you  know,  Patience.  You 
done  wrong  onct  when  you  was  a  girl,  and  I 
don't  think  we'd  ort  to  take  you  into  the  church 
tell  you  own  up  to  it." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  Patience 
said,  drawing  her  breath  in  heavily — "  Mebbe  I 
did  do  wrong  onct  when  I  was  a  little  girl  —  only 
fourteen,  say.  But  that's  thirty  year  ago,  and 
that's  a  long  time,  Mis'  Willis.  I  don't  think  I'd 
ort  to  own  up  to  it." 

"/think  you'd  ort." 

1  *  Mis'  Willis, ' '  —  Patience  spoke  solemnly. 
"D'you  think  I'd  ort  to  own  up  if  it  'u'd  affec' 
somebody  else  thet  ain't  never  b'en  talked  about  ?  " 

233 


PATIENCE  APPLEBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 


"Yes,  I  do,0  said  Mrs.  Willis,  firmly.  "If 
they  deserve  to  be  talked  about,  they'd  ort  to  be 
talked  about." 

*  '  Even  if  it  was  about  the  best  folks  in  town  ?  " 

'  '  Yes.  '  '    Mrs.  Willis  thought  of  the  minister. 

"Even  if  it  was  about  the  best-off  folks? 
Folks  that  hold  their  head  the  highest,  and  give 
most  to  churches  and  missionary  ;  and  thetev'ry- 
body  looks  up  to  ?  " 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Mrs.  Willis.  That  did  not  de 
scribe  the  minister,  certainly.  She  could  not 
have  told  you  why  her  heart  began  to  beat  so 
violently.  Somehow,  she  had  been  surprised  out 
of  the  attitude  she  had  meant  to  assume.  Instead 
of  walking  in  boldly  and  haughtily,  and  giving 
Patience  her  "  come-uppings,  "  she  was  finding  it 
difficult  to  conquer  a  feeling  of  pity  for  the 
enemy  because  she  was  so  poor  and  so  cold.  She 
must  harden  her  heart. 

"Even"  —  Patience  lowered  her  eyes  to  the 
worn  carpet  —  "if  it  was  folks  thet  had  b'en 
loudest  condemin'  other  folks'  s  sins,  and  that  had 
bragged  high  and  low  thet  there  wa'n't  no  dis 
grace  in  their  fambly,  and  never  had  b'en  none, 
and  who'd  just  be  about  killed  by  my  confessing- 

up?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Willis,  sternly.  But  she 
paled  to  the  lips. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Patience,  slowly.    "  I 

234 


PATIENCK  APPI«KBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

think  a  body'd  ort  to  have  a  chance  if  they  want 
to  live  better,  without  havin'  anybody  a-pryin' 
into  their  effairs  exceptin'  God.  But  if  you  don't 
agree  with  me,  I'm  ready  to  confess-up  all  I've 
done  bad.  I  guess  you  recollect,  Mis'  Willis, 
thet  your  'L,izy  and  me  was  just  of  an  age,  to  a 
day?" 

Mrs.  Willis's  lips  moved,  but  the  words  stuck 
in  her  throat. 

4 'And  how  we  ust  to  play  together  and  stay 
nights  with  each  other.  We  loved  each  other, 
Mis'  Willis.  You  ust  to  give  us  big  slices  o' 
salt-risin'  bread,  spread  thick  with  cream  and 
sprinkled  with  brown  sugar  —  I  can  just  see  you 
now,  a-goin'  out  to  the  spring-house  to  get  the 
cream.  And  I  can  just  taste  it,  too,  when  I  get 
good  and  hungry." 

"  What's  all  this  got  to  do  with  your  a-owning 
up  ?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Willis,  fiercely.  "  What's 
my  'Lizy  got  to  do  with  your  going  away  that 
time  ?  Where  was  you  at,  Patience  Appleby  ?  " 

"I'm  cornin'  to  that,"  said  Patience,  calmly  ; 
but  a  deep  flush  came  upon  her  face.  "  I've  at- 
toned-up  fer  that  time,  if  any  mortal  bein'  ever 
did,  Mis'  Willis.  I've  had  a  hard  life,  but  I've 
never  complained,  because  I  thought  the  L,ord 
was  a-punishin'  me.  But  I  have  suffered.  .  .  . 
Thirty  year,  Mis'  Willis,  of  pray  in'  to  be  fergive 
fer  one  sin  !  But  I  ain't  ever  see  the  day  I  could 

235 


confess-up  to  *t  —  and  I  couldn't  now,  except  to 
'Lizy's  mother." 

An  awful  trembling  shook  Mrs.  Willis's  heart. 
She  looked  at  Patience  with  straining  eyes.  "  Go 
on, ' '  she  said,  hoarsely. 

"  'Lizy  and  me  was  fourteen  on  the  same  day. 
She  was  goin'  to  Four  Corners  to  visit  her  a'nt, 
but  I  had  to  stay  at  home  and  work.  I  was 
cryin*  about  it  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  'lyizy 
says — "  Patience,  let's  up  and  have  a  good  time 
on  our  birthday  ! ' ' 

11  Well,  let's,"  I  says,  "but  how?" 

"1*11  start  fer  Four  Corners  and  then  you  run 
away,  and  I'll  meet  you,  and  we'll  go  to  Spring- 
ville  to  the  circus  and  learn  to  ride  bareback  " — 

Mrs.  Willis  leaned  forward  in  her  chair.  Her 
face  was  very  white  ;  her  thin  hands  were  clenched 
so  hard  the  knuckles  stood  out  half  an  inch. 

"Patience  Appleby,"  she  said,  "you're  a 
wicked,  sinful  liar  !  May  the  I/>rd  A' mighty  fer- 
give  you  —  /won't." 

"  I  ain't  askin'  you  to  take  my  word  ;  you  can 
ask  Mr.  Willis  hisself.  He  didn't  go  to  Spring- 
ville  to  buy  him  a  horse,  like  he  told  you  he  did. 
'lyizy  and  me  had  been  at  the  circus  two  days 
when  she  tuk  sick,  and  I  sent  fer  Mr.  Willis  un 
beknownst  to  anybody.  He  come  and  tuk  her 
home  and  fixed  it  all  up  with  her  a'nt  at  Four 
Corners,  and  give  out  thet  she'd  been  a-visitin' 

236 


PATIENCE  APPLEBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

there.  But  I  had  to  sneak  home  alone  and  live 
an  outcast's  life  ever  sence,  and  see  her  set  up 
above  me — just  because  Mr.  Willis  got  down  to 
beg  me  on  his  knees  never  to  tell  she  was  with 
me.  And  I  never  did  tell  a  soul,  Mis'  Willis,  tell 
last  winter  I  was  sick  with  a  fever  and  told  Mis' 
Wincoop  when  I  was  out  o'  my  head.  But  she's 
never  told  anybody,  either,  and  neither  of  us  ever 
will.  Mr.  Willis  has  helped  me  as  much  as  he 
could  without  your  a-findin'  it  out,  but  I  know  how 
it  feels  to  be  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  know  how  it 
feels  to  see  I/izy  set  up  over  me,  and  marry  rich, 
and  have  nice  children  ;  and  ride  by  me  'n  her 
kerriage  without  so  much  as  lookin'  at  me  • —  and 
me  a-chokin'  with  the  dust  off  o'  her  kerriage 
wheels.  But  I  never  complained  none,  and  I  ain't 
a-complainin'  now,  Mis'  Willis  ;  puttin'  'L,izy 
down  wouldn't  help  me  any.  But  I  do  think  it's 
hard  if  I  can't  be  let  into  the  church." 

Her  thin  voice  died  away  and  there  was  silence. 
Patience  sat  staring  at  the  coals  with  the  dullness 
of  despair  on  her  face.  Mrs.  Willis's  spare  frame 
had  suddenly  taken  on  an  old,  pathetic  stoop. 
What  her  haughty  soul  had  suffered  during  that 
recital,  for  which  she  had  been  so  totally  unpre 
pared,  Patience  would  never  realize.  The  world 
seemed  to  be  slipping  from  under  the  old  woman's 
trembling  feet.  She  had  been  so  strong  in  her 
condemnation  of  sinners  because  she  had  felt  so 

237 


PATIENCE  APPI^EBY'S  CONFESSING-UP 

sure  she  should  never  have  any  trading  with  sin 
herself.  And  lo  !  all  these  years  her  own  daugh 
ter  —  her  one  beloved  child,  dearer  than  life  itself 
—  had  been  as  guilty  as  this  poor  outcast  from 
whom  she  had  always  drawn  her  skirts  aside,  as 
from  a  leper.  Ay,  her  daughter  had  been  the 
guiltier  of  the  two.  She  was  not  spared  that  bit 
terness,  even.  Her  harsh  sense  of  justice  forced 
her  to  acknowledge,  even  in  that  first  hour,  that 
this  woman  had  borne  herself  nobly,  while  her 
daughter  had  been  a  despicable  coward. 

It  had  been  an  erect,  middle-aged  woman  who 
had  come  to  give  Patience  Appleby  her  *  *  come-up- 
piugs  ;  "  it  was  an  old,  broken -spirited  one  who 
went  stumbling  home  in  the  early,  cold  twilight 
of  the  winter  day.  The  fierce  splendor  of  the 
sunset  had  blazed  itself  out ;  the  world  was  a 
monotone  in  milky  blue  —  save  for  one  high  line 
of  dull  crimson  clouds  strung  along  the  horizon. 

A  shower  of  snow-birds  sunk  in  Mrs.  Willis's 
path,  but  she  did  not  see  them.  She  went  up  the 
path  and  entered  her  comfortable  home  ;  and  she 
fell  down  upon  her  stiff  knees  beside  the  first  chair 
she  came  to  —  and  prayed  as  she  had  never  prayed 
before  in  all  her  hard  and  selfish  life. 

When  Mr.  Willis  came  home  to  supper  he  found 
his  wife  setting  the  table  as  usual.     He  started 
for  the  bedroom,  but  she  stopped  him. 
238 


PATIENCK  APP^BY'S   CONF2SSINOUP 

"We're  a-going  to  use  the  front  bedroom  after 
this,  father,"  she  said. 

''Why,  what  are  we  going  to  do  that  fer, 
mother?" 

''I'm  a-going  to  give  our'n  to  Patience  Ap- 
pleby." 

"You're  a-going  to  —  what,  mother  ?" 

"I'm  a-going  to  give  our'n  to  Patience  Appleby, 
I  say.  I'm  a-going  to  bring  her  here  to  live,  and 
she's  got  to  have  the  warmest  room  in  the  house, 
because  her  rheumatiz  is  worse  'n  mine.  I'm 
a-going  after  her  myself  to-morrow  in  the  ker- 
riage. ' '  She  turned  and  faced  her  husband  sternly. 
"  She's  confessed-up  ev'ry thing.  I  was  dead  set 
she  should,  and  she  has.  I  know  where  she  was 
at,  that  time,  and  I  know  who  was  with  her.  I 
reckon  I'd  best  beattoning  up  as  well  as  Patience 
Appleby  ;  and  I'm  going  to  begin  by  making  her 
comi'terble  and  taking  her  into  the  church." 

"Why,  mother,"  said  the  old  man,  weakly. 
His  wife  repressed  him  with  one  look. 

"Now,  don't  go  to  talking  back,  father,"  she 
said,  sternly.  "I  reckon  you kep'  it  from  me  fer 
the  best,  but  it's  turrable  hard  on  me  now.  You 
get  and  wash  yourself.  I  want  that  you  should 
hold  this  candle  while  I  fry  the  apple-fritters." 


THK  MOTHER  OF 


THE  MOTHER  OF 


"  Pills  !     Oh,  Pills  !     You  Pillsy  !" 

The  girl  turned  from  the  door  of  the  drug  -store, 
and  looked  back  under  bent  brows  at  her  mother, 
who  was  wiping  graduated  glasses  with  a  stained 
towel,  at  the  end  of  the  prescription  counter. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  that,"  she  said  ; 
her  tone  was  impatient  but  not  disrespectful. 

Her  mother  laughed.  She  was  a  big,  good- 
natured  looking  woman,  with  light-blue  eyes  and 
sandy  eyebrows  and  hair.  She  wore  a  black  dress 
that  had  a  cheap,  white  cord-ruche  at  the  neck. 
There  were  spots  down  the  front  of  her  dress 
where  acids  had  been  spilled  and  had  taken  out 
the  color. 

"How  particular  we  are  gettin',"  she  said, 
turning  the  measuring  glass  round  and  round  on 
the  towel  which  had  been  wadded  into  it.  *  *  You 
didn't  use  to  mind  if  I  called  you  '  Pills,'  just  for 
fun." 

"Well,  I  mind  now." 


243 


The  girl  took  a  clean  towel  from  a  cupboard 
and  began  to  polish  the  show-cases,  breathing  upon 
them  now  and  then.  She  was  a  good-looking 
girl.  She  had  strong,  handsome  features,  and 
heavy  brown  hair,  which  she  wore  in  a  long  braid 
down  her  back.  A  deep  red  rose  was  tucked  in 
the  girdle  of  her  cotton  gown  and  its  head  lolled 
to  and  fro  as  she  worked.  Her  hands  were  not 
prettily  shaped,  but  sensitive,  and  the  ends  of  the 
fingers  were  square. 

"Well,  Mariella,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield, 
still  looking  amused ;  "  I  was  goin'  to  ask  you  if 
you  knew  the  Indians  had  all  come  in  on  their 
way  home  from  hoppickin'." 

Mariella  straightened  up  and  looked  at  her 
mother. 

"  Have  they,  honest,  ma?" 

"  Yes,  they  have  ;  they're  all  camped  down  on 
the  beach." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  where  !" 

* '  Why,  the  Nooksacks  are  clear  down  at  the 
coal-bunkers,  an'  the  Lummies  close  to  Timber- 
line's  Row  ;  an'  the  Alaskas  are  all  on  the  other 
side  of  the  viaduct." 

4 'Are  they  goin'  to  have  the  canoe  race? " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so.  I  guess  it'll  be  about  sun 
down  to-night.  There,  you  forgot  to  dust  that 
milk-shake.  An'  you  ain't  touched  that  shelf  o* 
patent  medicines  1 " 

244 


THH   MOTHER   OF    "PIU3" 

She  set  down  the  last  graduate  and  hung  the 
damp  towel  on  a  nail.  Then  she  came  out  into 
the  main  part  of  the  store  and  sat  down  comfort 
ably  behind  the  counter. 

Long  before  Mariella  was  born  her  father  had 
opened  a  drug-store  in  the  tiny  town  of  Sehome, 
on  Puget  Sound.  There  was  a  coal  mine  under 
the  town.  A  tunnel  led  down  into  it,  and  the 
men  working  among  the  black  diamonds,  with 
their  families,  made  up  the  town.  But  there  was 
some  trouble,  and  the  mine  was  abandoned  and 
flooded  with  salt  water.  The  men  went  away, 
and  for  many  years  Sehome  was  little  more  than 
a  name.  A  mail  boat  wheezed  up  from  Seattle 
once  a  week  ;  and  two  or  three  storekeepers  — 
Mr.  Mansfield  among  them  —  clung  to  the  ragged 
edge  of  hope  and  waited  for  the  boom.  Before  it 
came,  Mr.  Mansfield  was  bumped  over  the  ter 
rible  road  to  the  graveyard  and  laid  down  among 
the  stones  and  ferns.  Then  Mrs.  Mansfield  ' '  run  ' ' 
the  store.  The  question  "  Can  you  fill  perscrip- 
tions  ? ' '  was  often  put  to  her  fearfully  by  timid 
customers,  but  she  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can,"  she  would  say,  squar 
ing  about  and  looking  her  questioner  unwaver 
ingly  in  the  eye.  "I  guess  I'd  ought  to.  I've 
been  in  the  store  with  my  husband,  that's  dead, 
for  twenty  years.  I'm  not  a  regular,  but  I'm  a 


245 


practical  —  an'  that's  better  than  a  regular  any 
day." 

"It's  not  so  much  what  you  know  in  a  drug 
store  as  what  you  look  like  you  know,"  she  some 
times  confided  to  admiring  friends. 

It  is  true  Mrs.  Mansfied  was  often  perplexed 
over  the  peculiar  curdled  appearance  of  some 
mixture  —  being  as  untaught  in  the  mysterious 
ways  of  emulsions  as  a  babe  —  but  such  trifles 
were  dismissed  with  a  philosophical  sigh,  and  the 
prescriptions  were  handed  over  the  counter  with 
a  complaisance  that  commanded  confidence.  The 
doctor  hinted,  with  extreme  delicacy,  at  times, 
that  his  emulsions  did  not  turn  out  as  smooth  as 
he  had  expected ;  or  that  it  would  be  agreeable 
to  find  some  of  his  aqueous  mixtures  tinged  with 
cochineal ;  or  that  it  was  possible  to  make  pills 
in  such  a  way  that  they  would  not  —  so  to 
speak  —  melt  in  the  patient's  mouth  before  he 
could  swallow  them.  But  Mrs.  Mansfield  invari 
ably  laughed  at  him  in  a  kind  of  motherly  way, 
and  reminded  him  that  he  ought  to  be  glad  to 
have  even  a  '  *  practical  "  in  a  place  like  Sehome. 
And  really  this  was  so  true  that  it  was  unanswer 
able. 

So  Mrs.  Mansfield  held  the  fort ;  and  as  her 
medicines,  although  abominable  to  swallow,  never 
killed  any  one,  she  was  looked  upon  with  awe 


246 


TH3   MOTHER   OF    " 


and  respect  by  the  villagers  and  the  men  in  the 
neighboring  logging-camps. 

Mariella  was  brought  up  in  the  drug-store. 
She  had  the  benefit  of  her  mother's  experience, 
and,  besides  that,  she  had  studied  the  *  '  dispensa 
tory"  —  a  word,  by  the  way,  which  Mrs.  Mans 
field  began  with  a  capital  letter  because  of  the 
many  pitfalls  from  which  it  had  rescued  her. 

"Mariella  is  such  a  good  girl,"  her  mother 
frequently  declared  ;  '  '  she  got  a  real  good  educa 
tion  over  at  the  Whatcom  schools,  an'  she's  such 
a  help  in  the  drug-store.  She  does  make  a  beau 
tiful  pill." 

Indeed,  the  girl's  pill-making  accomplishment 
was  so  appreciated  by  Mrs.  Mansfield  that  she 
had  nick-named  her  "  Pills  "  —  a  name  that  had 
been  the  cause  of  much  mirth  between  them. 

Mariella  was  now  sixteen,  and  the  long-deferred 
"boom"  was  upon  them.  Mrs.  Mansfield  and 
her  daughter  contemplated  it  from  the  store  door 
daily  with  increasing  admiration.  The  wild  clover 
no  longer  velveted  the  middle  of  the  street.  New 
buildings,  with  red,  green  or  blue  fronts  and  non 
descript  backs,  leaped  up  on  every  corner  and  in 
between  corners.  The  hammers  and  saws  made 
music  sweeter  than  any  brass  band  to  Sehome 
ears.  Day  and  night  the  forests  blazed  backward 
from  the  town.  When  there  were  no  customers  in 
the  store  Mariella  stood  in  the  door,  twisting  the 

247 


THE   MOTHER   OF    " 


rope  of  the  awning  around  her  wrist,  and  watched 
the  flames  leaping  from  limb  to  limb  up  the  tall, 
straight  fir-  trees.  When  Sehome  hill  was  burn 
ing  at  night,  it  was  a  magnificent  spectacle  ;  like 
hundreds  of  torches  dipped  into  a  very  hell  of 
fire  and  lifted  to  heaven  by  invisible  hands  —  while 
in  the  East  the  noble,  white  dome  of  Mount  Baker 
burst  out  of  the  darkness  against  the  lurid  sky. 
The  old  steamer  Idaho  came  down  from  Seattle 
three  times  a  week  now.  When  she  landed,  Mrs. 
Mansfield  and  Mariella,  and  such  customers  as 
chanced  to  be  in  the  store,  hurried  breathlessly 
back  to  the  little  sitting-room,  which  overlooked 
the  bay,  to  count  the  passengers.  The  old  colony 
wharf,  running  a  mile  out  across  the  tide-lands 
to  deep  water,  would  be  "  fairly  alive  with  'em," 
Mrs.  Mansfield  declared  daily,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
anticipation  of  the  good  times  their  coming  fore 
told.  She  counted  never  less  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  ;  and  so  many  walked  three  and  four  abreast 
that  it  was  not  possible  to  count  all. 

Really,  that  summer  everything  seemed  to  be 
going  Mrs.  Mansfield's  way.  Mariella  was  a 
comfort  to  her  mother  and  an  attraction  to  the 
store  ;  business  was  excellent  ;  her  property  was 
worth  five  times  more  than  it  had  ever  been  be 
fore  ;  and,  besides  —  when  her  thoughts  reached 
this  point  Mrs.  Mansfield  smiled  consciously  and 
blushed  —  there  was  Mr.  Grover  I  Mr.  Grover 
248 


kept  the  dry-goods  store  next  door.  He  had 
come  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  boom.  He  was 
slim  and  dark  and  forty.  Mrs.  Mansfield  was 
forty  and  large  and  fair.  Both  were  "well  off." 
Mr.  Grover  was  lonely  and  '  *  dropped  into  ' '  Mrs. 
Mansfield's  little  sitting-room  every  night.  She 
invited  him  to  supper  frequently,  and  he  told  her 
her  that  her  fried  chicken  and  ' '  cream ' '  potatoes 
were  better  than  anything  he  had  eaten  since  his 
mother  died.  Of  late  his  intentions  were  not  to 
be  misunderstood,  and  Mrs.  Mansfield  was  already 
putting  by  a  cozy  sum  for  a  wedding  outfit.  Only 
that  morning  she  had  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass  more  attentively  than  usual  while  combing 
her  hair.  Some  thought  made  her  blush  and 
smile. 

' '  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  !' '  she  said,  shak 
ing  her  head  at  herself  in  the  glass  as  at  a  gay, 
young  thing.  "To  be  thinkin'  about  gettin* 
married  !  With  a  big  girl  like  Pills  too.  One 
good  thing  :  He  really  seems  to  think  as  much 
of  Pills  as  you  do  yourself,  Mrs.  Mansfield. 
That's  what  makes  me  so  —  happy,  I  guess.  I 
believe  it's  the  first  time  I  ever  was  real  happy 
before. ' '  She  sighed  unconsciously  as  she  glanced 
back  over  her  years  of  married  life.  "An'  I  don't 
know  what  makes  me  so  awful  happy  now.  But 
sometimes  when  I  get  up  of  a  mornin'  I  just  feel 


249 


as  if  I  could  go  out  on  the  hill  an'  sing  —  foolish 
as  any  of  them  larks  holler'n'  for  joy. 

"  Mariella,"  she  said,  watching  the  duster  in 
the  girl's  hands,  "what  made  you  flare  up  so 
when  I  called  you  '  Pills  ?'  You  never  done  that 
before,  an'  I  don't  see  what  ails  you  all  of  a  sud 
den." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  flare  up,"  said  Mariella. 
She  opened  the  cigar-case  and  arranged  the  boxes 
carefully.  Then  she  closed  it  with  a  snap  and 
looked  at  her  mother.  * '  But  I  wish  you'  d  stop 
it,  ma.  Mr.  Grover  said " 

"Well,  what 'id  he  say?" 

"  He  said  it  wasn't  a  nice  name  to  call  a  girl 
by. ' '  Mariella' s  face  reddened,  but  she  was  stoop- 
ing  behind  the  counter. 

Mrs.-  Mansfield  drummed  on  the  show-case  with 
broad  fingers  and  looked  thoughtful. 

"  Well,"  she  said  with  significance,  after  a 
pause,  "  if  lie  don't  like  it,  I  won't  do  it.  We've 
had  lots  o'  fun  over  it,  Pills,  ain't  we  —  I  mean 
Mariella  —  but  I  guess  he  has  a  right  to  say  what 
you'll  be  called,  Pi my  dear." 

"  Oh,  ma,"  said  Mariella.  Her  face  was  like 
a  poppy. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  won't  object,  will  you? 
I've  been  wond'rin'  how  you  felt  about  it." 

"Oh,  ma,"  faltered  the  girl ;  "  do  you  think, 
honest,  he he " 

250 


THE   MOTHER   OF    "  PIU.S  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  her  mother,  laughing  com 
fortably  and  blushing  faintly.  "  I'm  sure  of  it. 
An'  I'm  happier  'n  I  ever  was  in  my  life  over  it. 
I  don't  think  I  could  give  you  a  better  stepfather, 
or  one  that  would  think  more  of  you." 

Mariella  stood  up  slowly  behind  the  counter 
and  looked  —  stared  —  across  the  room  at  her 
mother,  in  a  dazed,  uncomprehending  way.  The 
color  ebbed  slowly  out  of  her  face.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  she  felt  the  muscles  about  her  mouth 
jerking.  She  pressed  her  lips  more  tightly  to 
gether. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I  oughtn't  to  marry 
again,"  said  her  mother,  returning  her  look  with 
out  understanding  it  in  the  least.  "  Your  pa's 
been  dead  ten  years  "  -  this  in  an  injured  tone. 

*'  There  ain't  many  women Oh,  good  mornin', 

Mr.  Lester?  Mariella,  '11  you  wait  on  Mr.  fes 
ter?  Well"  -beaming  good  naturedly  on  her 
customer  — * '  how's  real  estate  this  mornin'  ?  Any 
new  sales  afoot  ?' ' 

" Are  there  ?"  repeated  that  gentleman,  leaning 
on  the  show-case  and  lighting  his  cigar,  innocent 
of  intentional  discourtesy.  "  Well,  I  should  smile 
—  and  smile  broadly  too,  Mrs.  Mansfield. 
There's  a  Minneapolis  chap  here  that's  buyin' 
right  an'  left ;  just  slashiri1  things  !  He's  bought 
a  lot  o'  water-front  property,  too  ;  an'  let  me  tell 
you,  right  now,  that  Jim  Hill's  behind  him  ;  an' 

25* 


THE   MOTHKR   OF    "  PII,I,S  " 

lim  Hill's  the  biggest  railroad  man  in  the  U.  S. 
to-day,  an'  the  Great  Northern's  behind  him!" 

"Well,  I  hope  so."  Mrs.  Mansfield  drew 
a  long  breath  of  delight.  Mr.  fester  smiled, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  spread  out  his  hands,  and 
sauntered  out  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  the 
ear  of  railroad  kings. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  the  canoe  races  to-night, 
Mariella?"  began  her  mother,  in  a  conciliatory 
tone. 

"  I  don't  know.     Might  as  well,  I  guess." 

The  girl  was  wiping  the  shelf  bottles  now  ;  her 
face  was  pale,  but  her  back  was  to  her  mother. 

"Well,  we  will  have  an  early  supper,  so  you 
can  get  off.  Mercy,  child  !  Did  you  break  one 
o'  them  glass  labels  ?  How  often  V  I  told  you 
not  to  press  on  'em  so  hard?  What  one  is  it? 
The  tincture  cantharides !  Well,  tie  a  string 
around  it,  so  we'll  know  what  it  is.  There  ain't 
no  label  on  the  aconite  bottle,  nor  the  Jamaica 
ginger  either  —  an'  them  settin'  side  by  side,  too. 
I  hate  guessin'  at  things  in  a  drug-store — 'spe 
cially  when  one's  a  poison.  Have  you  scoured  up 
them  spatulas?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Well,  I'll  go  in  an'  do  up  the  dishes,  an' 
leave  you  to  'tend  store.  Don't  forget  to  make 
Mr.  Benson's  pills." 

But  Mr.  Benson's  pills  were  not  made  right 
252 


THE   MOTHER   OF    "  PIU<S  " 

away.  When  her  mother  was  gone,  Manella  got 
down  from  the  step-ladder  and  leaned  one  elbow 
on  the  show-case  and  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand. 
Her  throat  swelled  in  and  out  fitfully,  and  the 
blue  veins  showed,  large  and  full,  on  her  temples. 
For  a  long  time  she  stood  thus,  twisting  the  towel 
in  her  hand  and  looking  at  the  fires  on  the  hill 
without  seeing  them.  Some  of  their  dry  burning- 
seemed  to  get  into  her  own  eyes. 

Mr.  Grover,  passing,  glanced  in. 

"  Mariella,"  he  said,  putting  one  foot  across 
the  threshold,  *  *  are  you  goin'  to  the  canoe 
races  ? ' ' 

The  girl  had  darted  erect  instantly,  and  put  on 
a  look  of  coquettish  indifference. 

"Yes,  I  am."  Her  eyes  flashed  at  him  over 
her  shoulder  from  the  corners  of  their  lids  as  she 
started  back  to  the  prescription-case.  "  I'm  goin' 
with  Charlie  Walton!'* 

When  Mariella  had  gone  to  the  races  that 
night,  and  customers  were  few  and  far  between, 
Mr.  Grover  walked  with  a  determined  air  through 
Mrs.  Mansfield's  store  and,  pushing  aside  the 
crimson  canton-flannel  portieres,  entered  her 
cheerful  sitting-room.  On  the  floor  was  a  Brus 
sels  carpet,  large-flowered  and  vivid.  A  sewing- 
machine  stood  in  one  corner  and  Mariella' s  organ 
in  another.  The  two  narrow  windows  over-look 
ing  the  sound  were  gay  with  blooming  geraniums 

253 


THE  MOTHER   OF 


and  white  curtains  tied  with  red  ribbons.  There 
was  a  trunk  deceptively  stuffed  and  cretonned 
into  the  semblance  of  a  settee  ;  and  there  was  a 
wicker-chair  that  was  full  of  rasping,  aggravating 
noises  when  you  rocked  in  it.  It  had  red  ribbon 
twisted  through  its  back  and  arms.  Mrs.  Mans 
field  was  sitting  in  it  now,  reading  a  novel,  and 
the  chair  was  complaining  unceasingly. 

Mr.  Grover  sat  dowrn  on  the  trunk. 

"  Mrs.  Mansfield,"  he  said,  looking  squarely  at 
her,  "I've  got  somethin'  to  ask  of  you,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  do  it  while  Mariella's  away." 

"That  so?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

The  color  in  her  cheek  deepened  almost  to  a 
purple.  She  put  one  hand  up  to  her  face,  and 
with  the  other  nervously  wrinkled  the  corners  of 
the  leaves  of  her  novel.  She  lowered  her  lids 
resolutely  to  hide  the  sudden  joy  in  her  eyes. 

"I  guess  you  know  what  I've  been  comin' 
here  so  much  for.  I  couldn't  help  thinkin',  too, 
that  you  liked  the  idea  an'  was  sort  of  encouragin* 
me." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  threw  one  hand  out  toward  him 
in  a  gesture  at  once  deprecating,  coquettish  and 
helpful. 

"Oh,  you!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing  and 
coloring  more  deeply.  There  was  decided  en 
couragement  in  her  honest  blue  eyes  under  their 
sandy  lashes. 

254 


THE  MOTHER   OF 

"  Well,  didn't  you,  now  ? ' '  Mr. Grover  leaned 
toward  her. 

She  hesitated,  fingering  the  leaves  of  her  book. 
She  turned  her  head  to  one  side ;  the  leaves 
swished  softly  as  they  swept  past  her  broad 
thumb  ;  the  corners  of  her  mouth  curled  in  a  tremu 
lous  smile ;  the  fingers  of  her  other  hand  moved 
in  an  unconscious  caress  across  her  warm  cheek  ; 
she  remembered  afterward  that  the  band  across 
the  bay  on  the  long  pier,  where  the  races  were, 
was  playing  "Annie  L,aurie,"  and  that  the  odor 
of  wild  musk,  growing  outside  her  window  in  a 
box,  was  borne  in,  sweet  and  heavy,  by  the  sea 
winds.  It  was  the  one  perfect  moment  of  Mrs. 
Mansfield's  life  —  in  which  there  had  been  no 
moments  that  even  approached  perfection ;  in 
which  there  had  been  no  hint  of  poetry  —  only 
dullest,  everyday  prose.  She  had  married  be 
cause  she  had  been  taught  that  women  should 
marry  ;  and  Mr.  Mansfield  had  been  a  good  hus 
band.  She  always  said  that ;  and  she  did  not 
even  know  that  she  always  sighed  after  saying  it. 
Her  regard  for  Mr.  Grover  was  the  poetry  —  the 
wine  —  of  her  hard,  frontier  life.  Never  before 
that  summer  had  she  stood  and  listened  to  the 
message  of  the  meadow-lark  with  a  feeling  of  ex 
altation  that  brought  tears  to  her  eyes ;  or  gone 
out  to  gather  wild  pink  clover  with  the  dew  on 
it ;  or  turned  her  broad  foot  aside  to  spare  a  worm. 

255 


Not  that  Mr.  Grover  ever  did  any  of  these  things  ; 
but  that  love  had  lifted  the  woman's  soul  and 
given  her  the  new  gift  of  seeing  the  beauty  of 
common  things.  No  one  had  guessed  that  there 
was  a  change  in  her  heart,  not  even  Mariella. 

It  was  well  that  Mrs.  Mansfield  prolonged  that 
perfect  moment.  When  she  did  lift  her  eyes  there 
was  a  kind  of  appealing  tenderness  in  them. 

"I  guess  I  did,"  she  said. 

''Well,  then,"— Mr.  Grover  drew  a  breath  of 
relief — "you  might's  well  say  I  can  have  her.  I 
want  it  all  understood  before  she  gets  home.  I 
want  to  stop  her  runnin'  with  that  Walton.  Once 
or  twice  I've  been  afraid  you'd  just  as  leave  she'd 
marry  him  as  me.  I  don't  like  to  see  girls  galli 
vant  with  two  or  three  fellows." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  sat  motionless,  looking  at  him. 
Her  eyes  did  not  falter  ;  the  smile  did  not  wholly 
vanish  from  her  face.  Only  the  blood  throbbed 
slowly  away,  leaving  it  paler  than  Mariella 's  had 
been  that  morning.  She  understood  her  mistake 
almost  before  his  first  sentence.  While  he  was 
speaking  her  thoughts  were  busy.  She  felt  the 
blood  coming  back  when  she  remembered  what 
she  had  said  to  Mariella.  If  only  she  had  not 
spoken  I 

"  Well,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  have  you  said  any 
thing  to  Mariella?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  ;  lots  o'  times.  An'  I  know  she 
256 


THE  MOTHER   OF   " 


likes  me  ;  but  she's  some  flirtish,  and  that's  what 
I  want  to  put  a  stop  to.  So,  with  your  permis 
sion,  I'll  have  a  talk  with  her  to-night." 

"I'd  like  to  talk  to  her  first  myself."  Mrs. 
Mansfield  looked  almost  stern.  "But  I  guess 
it'll  be  all  right,  Mr.  Grover.  If  you'd  just  as 
soon  wait  till  to-morrow,  I'd  like  to  be  alone  and 
make  up  my  mind  what  to  say  to  her." 

Mr.  Grover  got  up  and  shook  hands  with  her 
awkwardly. 

"I'll  make  her  a  good  husband,"  he  said,  earn 
estly. 

"I  don't  doubt  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

Then  he  went  out  and  the  crimson  curtain  fell 
behind  him. 


When  Mariella  came  home  her  mother  was  sit 
ting,  rocking,  by  the  window.  The  lamp  was 
lighted. 

"  Pills,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  stop  goin' 
with  that  fello'." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Then  she 
took  off  her  turban  and  stuck  the  long  black  pins 
back  into  it. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  him,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  I  do,  but  Mr.  Grover  wants  you  —  an'  I  like 
him  better." 

"Wants  me  /"  Mariella  drew  up  her  shoul 
ders  proudly.  2 


THE   MOTHER   OP    "  Piles'* 

"Yes,  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Mansfield,  laughing. 
The  humor  of  the  situation  was  beginning  to  ap 
peal  to  her.  "  He  says  he'd  told  you.  You  must 
of  laughed  after  I  told  you  he  wanted  me." 

"  Oh,  ma,  does  he  want  me,  honest  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  does."     She  was  still  laughing. 

"  An'  don't  you  mind,  ma  ?" 

"Not  a  mite,"  said  the  widow,  cheerfully. 
"I'd  rather  he'd  marry  you  than  me;  only,  I 
thought  he  was  too  nice  a  man  to  be  lost  to  the 
fam'ly." 

"Oh,  ma!" 

"Well,  get  to  bed  now.  He's  comin'  in  the 
mornin'  to  see  you." 

She  took  up  the  lamp  and  stood  holding  it  ir 
resolutely. 

"  Pills,"  she  said,  looking  embarrassed,  "  You 
won't  ever  tell  him  that  I that  I " 

"Never,  ma!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  earnestly  ; 
"as  long  as  I  live." 

"  All  right,  then.  Look  out  !  You're  droppin' 
tallo'  from  your  candle  !  Don't  hold  it  so  crooked, 
child !  I  wouldn't  like  him  to  laugh  about  it. 
Good-night." 

As  she  passed  through  the  kitchen  she  called 
out:  "Oh,  Pills!  Mr.  Jordan  brought  in  a 
mess  of  trout.  We'll  have  'em  fried  for  break 
fast." 


258 


The  girl  came  running  after  her  mother,  and 
threw  her  arms  around  her. 

"  Oh,  ma,  are  you  sure  you  don't  care  a  bit?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  kissing  her 
heartily.  4<  I  just  thought  he  ought  to  be  in  the 
family.  I'm  glad  it's  turned  out  this  way.  Now, 
you  go  to  bed,  an'  don't  forget  to  roll  up  your 
bangs." 

She  went  into  her  room  and  shut  the  door. 


259 


MRS.  RISLKY'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 


MRS.  RISLEY'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

She  was  an  old,  old  woman.  She  was  crippled 
with  rheumatism  and  bent  with  toil.  Her  hair 
was  gray, —  not  that  lovely  white  that  softens 
and  beautifies  the  face,  but  harsh,  grizzled  gray. 
Her  shoulders  were  round,  her  chest  was  sunken, 
her  face  had  many  deep  wrinkles.  Her  feet  were 
large  and  knotty  ;  her  hands  were  large,  too,  with 
great  hollows  running  down  their  backs.  And 
how  painfully  the  cords  stood  out  in  her  old, 
withered  neck  ! 

For  the  twentieth  time  she  limped  to  the  window 
and  flattened  her  face  against  the  pane.  It  was 
Christmas  day.  A  violet  sky  sparkled  coldly 
over  the  frozen  village.  The  ground  was  covered 
with  snow  ;  the  roofs  were  white  with  it.  The 
chimneys  looked  redder  than  usual  as  they 
emerged  from  its  pure  drifts  and  sent  slender 
curls  of  electric-blue  smoke  into  the  air. 

The  wind  was  rising.  Now  and  then  it  came 
sweeping  down  the  hill,  pushing  a  great  sheet  of 
snow,  powdered  like  dust,  before  it.  The  win 
dow-sashes  did  not  fit  tightly,  and  some  of  it 
sifted  into  the  room  and  climbed  into  little  cones 
on  the  floor.  Snow-birds  drifted  past,  like  soft, 
dark  shadows ;  and  high  overhead  wild  geese 

263 


MRS.    RISLEY'S   CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

went  sculling  through  the  yellow  air,  their  mourn 
ful  "  hawnk-e-hawnk-hawnks  "  sinking  down 
ward  like  human  cries. 

As  the  old  woman  stood  with  her  face  against 
the  window  and  her  weak  eyes  strained  down  the 
street,  a  neighbor  came  to  the  door. 

' '  Has  your  daughter  an'  her  fambly  come  yet, 
Mis'  Risley?"  she  asked,  entering  sociably. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Mrs.  Risley,  with  a  good 
attempt  at  cheerfulness  ;  but  her  knees  suddenly 
began  shaking,  and  she  sat  down. 

"Why,  she'd  ought  to  'a'  come  on  the  last 
train,  hadn't  she?  " 

"Oh,  I  do'  know.  There's  a  plenty  o'  time. 
Dinner  won't  be  ready  tell  two  past." 

"She  ain't  b'en  to  see  you  fer  five  year,  has 
she  ?  ' '  said  the  neighbor.  ' *  I  reckon  you'll  have 
a  right  scrumptious  set-out  fer  'em  ?  " 

'  *  I  will  so, ' '  said  Mrs.  Risley,  ignoring  the 
other  question.  "  Her  husband's  comin'." 

"  I  want  to  know  !  Why,  he  just  thinks  he's 
some  punkins,  I  hear." 

"Well,  he's  rich  enough  to  think  hisself  any 
thing  he  wants  to."  Mrs.  Risley 's  voice  took  on 
a  tone  of  pride. 

"  I  sh'u'd  think  you'd  want  to  go  an*  live  with 
'em.  It's  offul  hard  fer  you  to  live  here  all  alone, 
with  your  rheumatiz." 

Mrs.  Risley  stooped  to  lay  a  stick  of  wood  on 
the  fire. 


MRS.    RISI^Y'S   CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

"I've  worked  nigh,  onto  two  weeks  over  this 
dinner,"  she  said,  "  a-seed'n'  raisins  an'  cur'nts, 
an'  things.  I've  hed  to  skimp  harrable,  Mis' 
Totnlinson,  to  get  it;  but  it's  just — perfec*. 
Roast  goose  an'  cranberry  sass,  an'  cePry  soup, 
an'  mince  an'  punkin  pie, —  to  say  nothin'  o' 
plum-puddin'  !  An'  cookies  an'  cur'nt-jell  tarts 
fer  the  children.  I'll  hev  to  wear  my  old  under- 
clo's  all  winter  to  pay  fer  't ;  but  I  don't  care." 

"I  sh'u'd  think  your  daughter 'd  keep  you 
more  comf'terble,  seem'  her  husband's  so  rich." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mrs.  Risley's  face  grew 
stern.  The  gold-colored  cat  came  and  arched  her 
back  for  a  caress.  "  My  bread  riz  beautiful," 
Mrs.  Risley  said  then.  "I  worried  so  over  't. 
An'  my  fruit-cake  smells  that  good  when  I  open 
the  stun  crock  !  I  put  a  hull  cup  o'  brandy  in  it. 
Well,  I  guess  you'll  hev  to  excuse  me.  I've  got 
to  set  the  table." 

When  Mrs.  Tomlinson  was  gone,  the  strained 
look  came  back  to  the  old  woman's  eyes.  She 
went  on  setting  the  table,  but  at  the  sound  of  a 
wheel,  or  a  step  even,  she  began  to  tremble  and 
put  her  hand  behind  her  ear  to  listen. 

'  *  It' s  funny  they  didn't  come  on  that  last  train, ' ' 
she  said.  "I  w'u'dn't  tell  her,  though.  But 
they'd  ort  to  be  here  by  this  time." 

She  opened  the  oven  door.  The  hot,  delicious 
odor  of  its  precious  contents  gushed  out.  Did 

265 


MRS.    RISI^KYS  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

ever  goose  brown  so  perfectly  before  ?  And  how 
large  the  liver  was  !  It  lay  in  the  gravy  in  one 
corner  of  the  big  dripping-pan,  just  beginning  to 
curl  at  the  edges.  She  tested  it  carefully  with  a 
little  three-tined  iron  fork. 

The  mince-pie  was  on  the  table,  waiting  to  be 
warmed,  and  the  pumpkin-pie  was  out  on  the 
back  porch, —  from  which  the  cat  had  been  ex 
cluded  for  the  present.  The  cranberry  sauce, 
the  celery  in  its  high,  old-fashioned  glass,  the  lit 
tle  bee-hive  of  hard  sauce  for  the  pudding  and 
the  thick  cream  for  the  coffee,  bore  the  pumpkin- 
pie  company.  The  currant  jelly  in  the  tarts 
glowed  like  great  red  rubies  set  in  circles  of  old 
gold  ;  the  mashed  potatoes  were  light  and  white  as 
foam. 

For  one  moment,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  savory 
kitchen,  she  thought  of  the  thin,  worn  flannels, 
and  how  much  better  her  rheumatism  would 
be  with  the  warm  ones  which  could  have  been 
bought  with  the  money  spent  for  this  dinner. 
Then  she  flushed  with  self-shame. 

' '  I  must  be  gittin'  childish, ' '  she  exclaimed, 
indignantly  ;  "to  begredge  a  Chris' mas  dinner  to 
'Lizy.  'S  if  I  hedn't  put  up  with  old  underclo's 
afore  now  !  But  I  will  say  there  ain't  many 
women  o'  my  age  thet  c'u'd  git  up  a  dinner  like 
this  'n', —  rheumatiz  an'  all." 

A  long,  shrill  whistle  announced  the  last  train 

266 


MRS.    RISLKY'S   CHRISTMAS   DINNER 

from  the  city.  Mrs.  Risley  started  and  turned 
pale.  A  violent  trembling  seized  her.  She  could 
scarcely  get  to  the  window,  she  stumbled  so.  On 
the  way  she  stopped  at  the  old  walnut  bureau  to 
put  a  lace  cap  on  her  white  hair  and  to  look  anx- 
iotisly  into  the  mirror. 

"  Five  year  !  "  she  whispered.  "  It's  an  offul 
spell  to  go  without  seein'  your  only  daughter  ! 
Everything'll  seem  mighty  poor  an'  shabby  to  her, 
I  reckon,  —  her  old  mother  worst  o'  all.  I  never 
sensed  how  I'd  changed  tell  now.  My  !  how  no- 
account  I'm  a  gittin'  !  I'm  all  of  a  trimble  !  " 

Then  she  stumbled  on  to  the  window  and 
pressed  her  cheek  against  the  pane. 

"They'd  ort  to  be  in  sight  now,"  she  said. 
But  the  minutes  went  by,  and  they  did  not  come. 

"  Mebbe  they've  stopped  to  talk,  meetin'  folks," 
she  said,  again.  "But  they'd  ort  to  be  in  sight 
now."  She  trembled  so  she  had  to  get  a  chair 
and  sit  down.  But  still  she  wrinkled  her  cheek 
upon  the  cold  pane  and  strained  her  dim  eyes 
down  the  street. 

After  a  while  a  boy  came  whistling  down  from 
the  corner.  There  was  a  letter  in  his  hand.  He 
stopped  and  rapped,  and  when  she  opened  the 
door  with  a  kind  of  frightened  haste,  he  gave  her 
the  letter  and  went  away,  whistling  again. 

A  letter  !  Why  should  a  letter  come  ?  Her 
heart  was  beating  in  her  throat  now,—  that  poor 

267 


MRS.   RIS^Y'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

old  heart  that  had  beaten  under  so  many  sorrows  ! 
She  searched  in  a  dazed  way  for  her  glasses. 
Then  she  fell  helplessly  into  a  chair  and  read  it : 
"  DEAR  MOTHER, —  I  am  so  sorry  we  cannot  come, 
after  all.  We  just  got  word  that  Robert's  aunt  has  been 
expecting  us  all  the  time,  because  we've  spent  every 
Christmas  there.  We  feel  as  if  we  must  go  there,  be 
cause  she  always  goes  to  so  much  trouble  to  get  up  a  fine 
dinner;  and  we  knew  you  wouldn't  do  that.  Besides, 
she  is  so  rich ;  and  one  has  to  think  of  one's  children, 
you  know.  We'll  come,  sure,  next  year.  With  a  merry, 
merry  Christmas  from  all,  EI/IZA." 

It  was  hard  work  reading  it,  she  had  to  spell  out 
so  many  of  the  words.  After  she  had  finished,  she 
sat  for  a  long,  long  time  motionless,  looking  at 
the  letter.  Finally  the  cat  came  and  rubbed 
against  her,  "myowing"  for  her  dinner.  Then 
she  saw  that  the  fire  had  burned  down  to  a  gray, 
desolate  ash. 

She  no  longer  trembled,  although  the  room  was 
cold.  The  wind  was  blowing  steadily  now.  It 
was  snowing,  too.  The  bleak  Christmas  after 
noon  and  the  long  Christmas  night  stretched  be 
fore  her.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  the  little  fir-tree 
on  a  table  in  one  corner,  with  its  gilt  balls  and 
strings  of  popcorn  and  colored  candles.  She 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  it.  She  got  up  stifSy. 

"Well,    kitten,"    she   said,    trying    to    speak 
cheerfully,  but  with  a  pitiful  break  in  her  voice, 
"  let's  go  out  an'  eat  our  k Christmas  dinner." 
268 


BOOKS  ON  NATURE 


BADENOCH  (L.  N.).— The  Romance  of  the  Insect  World.  By 

L.   N.   BADENOCH.     With  Illustrations   by  Margaret  J.  D. 
Badenoch  and  others.     Second  Edition.     Gilt  top,  $1.25. 

11  The  volume  is  fascinating  from  beginning  to  end,  and  there  are  many 
hints  to  be  found  in  the  wisdom  and  thrift  shown  by  the  smallest  animal 
creatures." — Boston  Times, 

44  A  splendid  book  to  be  put  in  the  hands  of  any  youth  who  may  need 
an  incentive  to  interest  in  out-door  life  or  the  history  of  things  around 
him." — Chicago  Times. 


BRIGHTWEN.— Inmates  of  My  House  and  Garden.    By  Mrs. 

BRIGHTWEN.     Illustrated.     I2mo,  $1.25. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  books  of  the  season,  both  as  to  form  an% 
substance." — The  Outlook. 

44  The  book  fills  a  delightful  place  not  occupied  by  any  other  book  -tb*| 
we  have  ever  seen." — Boston  Home  Journal. 


GAVE.— The  Great  "World's  Farm.  Some  Account  of  Nature's 
Crops  and  How  They  are  Grown.  By  SELINA  GAYS.  With 
a  Preface  by  G.  S.  Boulger,  F.L.S.,  and  numerous  Illustra 
tions.  I2mo,  $1.50. 

The  University  of  California  expressly  commends  this  to  its 
affiliated  secondary  schools  for  supplementary  reading. 

14  It  is  a  thoroughly  well-written  and  well-illustrated  book,  divested  as 
much  as  possible  of  technicalities,  and  is  admirably  adapted  to  giving  young 
people,  for  whom  it  was  prepared,  a  readable  account  ){  plants  and  how  they 
live  and  grow." — Public  Opinion. 

41  One  of  the  most  delightful  semi-scientific  book*,  which  everyone  enjoys 
reading  and  at  once  wishes  to  own.  Such  works  pi^&ent  science  in  the  most 
fascinating  and  enticing  way,  and  from  a  cursory  glance  at  paragraphs  the 
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from  cover  to  cover.  .  .  .  The  work  is  especially  well  adapted  for  school 
purposes  in  connection  with  the  study  of  elementary  natural  science,  to  which 
modern  authorities  are  united  in  giving  ap  early  and  important  place  in  Che 
school  curriculum."—  The  Journal  of  Education. 


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"A*.  IDuAL  £o^'  ON  NATUK*.  STUDY." 

CITIZEN  BIRD 

Scenes  from  Bird  Life  in  Plain  English  for  Beginners.  By 
MABEL  OSGOOD  WRIGHT  and  ELLIOTT  COUES.  With  One 
Hundred  and  Eleven  Illustrations  by  Louis  Agassiz  Fuertes. 
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FIRST  BOOK  IN 
PHYSICAL  GEOGRAPHY 

By  RALPH  STOCKMAN  TARR,  B.S.,  F.G.S.A.,  Professor  of  Dy 
namic  Geology  and  Physical  Geography  at  Cornell  University. 
I2mo,  Half  Leather,  $1.10  net. 

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to  the  rapid  introduction  of  the  earlier  books  are  retained  in 
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ELEMENTARY 
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HUTCHINSON.— The  Story  of  the  Hilk  A  Book  about 
Mountains  for  General  Readers  and  Supplementary  Reading 
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tion,  which  is  given  in  a  style  that  everyone  can  comprehend.  .  .  ." 

—Journal  of  Education. 

DMGERSOLL.— Wild  Neighbor  A  Book  about  Animals.  By 
ERNEST  INGERSOLL.  Illustrated.  i6mo,  Cloth.  In  Press. 

JAPP  (A.  H.).— Hours  in  My  Garden,  and  Other  Nature- 
Sketches.  With  138  Illustrations,  $1.75. 

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"  It  is  a  book  to  be  read  and  enjoyed  by  both  young  and  old." 

— Public  Opinion. 

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Underledge.  By  WILLIAM  POTTS.  Macmillaris  Miniature 
Series.  i8mo,  75  cents. 

41  But  the  attraction  of  Mr.  Potts'  book  is  not  merely  in  its  record  of  the 
natural  year.  He  has  been  building  a  house,  and  we  have  the  humors  and 
the  satisfactions,  and  hopes  deferred,  that  usually  attend  that  business.  He 
has  been  digging  a  well,  and  the  truth  which  he  has  found  at  the  bottom  of 
that  he  has  duly  set  forth.  .  .  .  Then,  too,  his  village  is  Farmington, 
Conn.,  and  there  Miss  Porter  has  her  famous  schools,  and  her  young  ladies 
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many  personal  aud  social  topics,  in  which  the  touch  is  light  and  graceful  and 
the  philosophy  is  sound  and  sweet"— Brooklyn  Standard-Union. 

WEED.— Life  Histories  of  American  Insects,  By  Prof.  CLAR 
ENCE  M.  WEED,  New  Hampshire  College  of  Agriculture  and 
Mechanical  Arts.  Fully  Illustrated.  Cloth.  In  Press, 


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